It's Gonna Hurt - Part II
by Hard Pouncing
Summary: At the end of It's Gonna Hurt, Ana has agreed to give CG yet another chance while she considers how best to ruin Ms. Lincoln. She is ready to play in return for orgasms and the chance at HEA but being young and smart may not be enough against experienced and evil ... whether it's Christian or Elena that Ana challenges! (No cheating)
1. Chapter 1

So let me hit the highlights. In the first book It's Gonna Hurt, Ana Steele (our heroine) bravely puts up with the belt incident (which was way worse than in Ms. James' book) and required medical attention. Christian Grey (our hero) has assigned her continuing security personnel, which she stoically endures. She starts her job with Seattle Independent Publishing, making new friends. Ana gives Christian another chance, where upon he uses an Elena Lincoln-recommended humiliation punishment, and she again leaves him. She begins with her posse of friends a campaign to repay Ms. Lincoln, an excellent endeavor. At the end of the first book (when I abandoned it) Ana has agreed to give Christian yet another chance, while she considers how best to ruin Ms. Lincoln … and quite possibly Mr. Grey.

Chapter 1

Characters:

Ana Steele = our strong-minded and weak-willed at times heroine, that includes her Conscience, Inner Goddess and Sub-Conscience ladies. Ana is into trying new things and exacting revenge on certain bitch trolls. She easily forgives all abuse given by idiots and has a core of steel that includes training in Tai Chi and self-defense by her protective ex-Army and Special Forces adoptive father.

Christian Grey = the Dominant BDSM idiot that Ana is in love with, who knows nothing of dating and gentle romance, but can show a Submissive Masochistic girl a good time in his secret room. Ready to dole out punishments from beatings to humiliation scenes, he's beginning to realize that 'fucking' crazy doesn't appeal to everyone.

Elena Lincoln = Grace's dearest friend, took Christian under her wing when he was 15 – ain't she a Saint?

Jason Taylor = Head of CG Security for Christian and his personal body guard, "He's tall and built and pretty good looking in that black suit", in his 40s, buzz haircut, calm dark green eyes

Luke Sawyer = CG Security assigned to Ana, about 25 years old, "pretty green" eyes

Cottie Prescott = CG Security assigned to Ana, "looks like she can whip both Taylor and Sawyer with her hands tied behind her back, a real hard as nails black woman maybe about fifty or so in age."

Ryan = CG Security assigned to Ana, "is a smart guy", people at SIP / GP think he is Ana's ex-boyfriend.

Katts and Bron = CG Security, have helped at times watch over Ana

Morgan Zimmerman = Administrative Assistant to Carter Laumber, Grey Publishing (formerly SIP), very intelligent and efficient, from Fort Worth TX, friend to Ana, brown hair, blue eyes, weighs twice what Ana does, homosexual and at minimum a one night stand with Ethan Kavanaugh.

Alison = friend to Ana, works at the reception desk on the first floor at SIP / GP

Sharlie White (I changed this from Charlie because one of my favorite FF has a Charlie (one of the quads of Ana and Christian) and I kept thinking of her when I wrote my Charlie) = friend to Ana, looks similar to Ana but 10 (or more) pounds overweight, 22 y.o. Southern charmer, works at SIP / GP

Carter Laumber = VP Acquisitions with SIP / GP, he and Ana share an odd sense of humor at times, looks like Ichabod Crane

Kate Kavanaugh = best friend to Ana, college roommate and present roommate, blonde hair blue eyed Barbie doll type, five inches taller than Ana

Ethan Kavanaugh = Kate's brother, bisexual, friend to Ana, minimum a one night stand with Morgan Zimmerman, bunked in Kate's second closet – that's the third bedroom – until he finds his own place closer to where he's going to college to be working on his Master's degree in Psychology in September

Elliot Grey = Christian's brother and Kate's boyfriend. Elliot has his own BDSM interests but more importantly he has told CG to dump Elena as a friend and certainly never listen to her advice again.

Dr. Lowe ("Dr. Dom", as Ana thinks of him) = Emergency Room Physician. Ana met him at the Seattle Family Healthcare clinic when she went to be treated s/p belt incident. He is a Dom and mentioned he'd like a contract with Ana if she gets better trained as a Submissive. He recommended Elena Lincoln to Ana as a Sub trainer. He also gave Ana a shot and Rx for Lunelle, a birth control method used successfully in Europe.

Ray Steele = Ana's ex step-father who she considers to be her father. Trained in jujitsu, ex-military, and protective of his daughter, the likelihood of Ray putting up with anyone hurting Ana is ZERO. Now if she would just mention it to him …

Carla = Ana's Mom, Ana has little to no contact with her since she decided she couldn't attend Ana's college graduation, the typical behavior for the woman who has ignored Ana's presence in her life since birth

Bob = Carla's current husband.

Gail Jones = Christian's housekeeper and cook, girlfriend of Jason Taylor, friend (sort of) to Ana

Mr. Roach = acting CEO of SIP, staying to make the transition from SIP to GP go smoothly.

Claude = Christian's physical trainer

Grace = Christian's Mom. How had she let him develop into this egomaniac with behavior control problems? She must not have believed in spanking

Carrick = Christian's Father, he is tall and handsome, whitening blonde hair and penetrating green eyes

Ros = Christian's number one assistant at GEH

Dr. Flynn = Christian's psychiatrist

Mia = Christian's sister, tall and thin with a sheath of curly brown hair

Dale Jennings = reporter with West Coast Gossip, while attempting to interview Ana on air managed to hit her in the face and got an infamous panty shot that went viral. Forget Taylor (well not really), Sawyer broke his face.

Welch = CG's mystery private detective / computer hacker / whatever guy. Apparently can find out anything and everything 24/7 and has no moral boundaries or ethics about it.

Barney = Computer person extraordinaire for CG


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Christian's POV

It's been over three weeks since I realized I have fallen in love with Anastasia Rose Steele. To a man like me, who has loved no woman – Mom and Mia don't count – in his life, it is a septic shock to the system. How do I know it's septic? Because it meets the fucking definition that I looked up online. Anastasia has my system inflamed – all of my systems, my respiratory rate goes sky high the minute I'm looking at her, my heart rate escalates, I feel like I have a fever running through my blood, and I'm on the constant verge of fight or flight response.

You don't get it. I have never had a relationship. I went from thinking about fucking girls like every other horny teenage male to being Elena's submissive. That wasn't a relationship although of course I defined it as love until she beat the word out of me. I started my training to become a Dominant the day I realized that the softness I automatically thought of as defining love was something I could not feel or give to another person. I have never gently kissed a woman on the mouth. My kisses were hard, fucking dominating copulating of the tongue and lips and teeth meant to show I was in charge. Even when I was rewarding Subs for pleasing me the use of my mouth on theirs wasn't anything more than another form of discipline. I have never touched a woman gently. Certainly not made love. I gave them pleasure because it pleased me to see them lose all control, to suffer their orgasms that I gave to them or made them experience. There is a certain involuntary pain to orgasm, and I enjoy giving others pain.

There. I said it.

And having said it, now I'm trying to change it. Flynn may as well be glued to my side. I'm seeing him every morning and every evening, talking to him multiple times during the day. I fucking had Barney transfer one million dollars into his Swiss account – like Welch didn't find that a few years ago – when I told him that I needed fixed and he was the mechanic. I think he's developing a whole new therapy style because I haven't heard "And how does that make you feel" in two weeks. We're like a race care team now. I'm driving and he's telling me how to handle the car so I can get the best results. All right, I'm learning a lot about how to handle the car as well.

Another member of Team Grey is Taylor. I have NEVER allowed any employee to do more than "Yes, Sir" me. I learned a long time ago that yelling gets results, cursing gets better action, and combining the two and even throwing a few things can lead to outstanding success. But now I need people I can trust, really trust. Elena's advice to me is a good example of who and what I _can't_ trust.

What fucking idiocy possessed me to listen to her and then to follow through on the humiliation pee punishment with Anastasia … well, I have no one to blame but myself for that second insanity; the first being when I lost any control as a Dom and beat Anastasia with a belt beyond any form of discipline and straight into physical abuse and assault. I fooled myself into thinking it wasn't that bad, it was only six strikes, but although they had been deleted (he's looking into that), Barney managed to get me from off their computer system the pictures the health center had taken. I will never, not E.V.E.R., forget the extent of the bruising, rips and swelling I left on her ass. No matter what I say to Anastasia, explain, she will never be able to trust that I wouldn't hurt her like that again in my playroom. Flynn has helped me to see that. If, perhaps, we had been together for some time … If, perhaps, she was an experienced Submissive … IF IF IF! And by some miracle when I took her back in there, the second time as the first time she went nearly catatonic, I abused her again.

I'm still flinching from that word. Abuse. All my Subs requested the punishments, knew the score and liked the pain/pleasure I gave them. Pain and pleasure physically, mentally, emotionally. Hell maybe even spiritually as several of them prayed out loud after we'd finished some intense scenes.

But I abused Anastasia a second time there. She won't even come back to Escala with me now. I got her as far as the basement parking garage and she spent ten minutes throwing up in reaction. That's when Taylor and I dismantled the playroom. I kept various items that I may someday be able to introduce into our sex life, but Anastasia has cured me of separating my worlds. No. I've cured me by trying to destroy Anastasia's sexual initiation and experiences.

But Team Grey has Jason Taylor guiding me. He's sitting shotgun in more than ten ways. I don't think he'd realized what a fuckwit I was with relationships until he listened to me with Flynn. Or at least he hadn't ever thought about it. Now he's thinking and using every bit of experience as a man who has dated, had real romantic relationships, married, divorced and was now in love with Gail Jones. And he's obviously rooting for me and Anastasia because we've got a whole new set of signals for game play.

So … here I am on a Friday afternoon, taking off early, and triple checking that my plans for a romantic weekend away with Anastasia, my reason for getting up in the morning with a smile (my face still is hurting from using those muscles), my reason for more controlled behaviors whenever there is even the slightest possibility of her hearing me because she says my screaming at people is going to give her ulcers, the reason I can feel my heart beating, to ensure that everything is perfect. I honestly didn't know that couples had weekends. My parents went to conferences together, took vacations together. If they had weekends together I hadn't noticed. Elliot? I hadn't taken notice of any of my family's interactions with others since I was fifteen. So … Taylor told me romantic weekends were normal and expected. I double checked with Flynn. Then, since I have done nothing but fuck up and terrorize my love, I triple checked by calling my Mom and asking her if a romantic weekend away was the right thing to do when dating.

Bless her heart, my Mom took to heart the knowledge that I hadn't done something like this before (although what she thinks is my lack of knowledge about women is so far from the truth that we're on different planets), and emailed me her ideas on what a romantic weekend entailed.

All that aside, I had the hardest time convincing Anastasia to come away with me. I promised her I wouldn't touch her, a promise I have no intention of keeping and she knows it. I know she knows it because I made arrangements with her security, in front of Anastasia, that if she is feeling pressured that she will have her own bedroom. Meaning that I intend for us to sleep – well, not actually sleep – together. If things work out as I plan then my very lovely Anastasia is going to be too tired to keep her eyes open at work on Monday.

Oh. Contracts? They're off the table. Taylor informed me that zero romantic relationships involve paperwork. The next papers I ask Anastasia to sign should involve our marriage license. I've got those ready, just in case.

After all, I managed to nail her three times without using a condom. If she turns up pregnant I've got me the woman that I never dreamed of all tied up. Desperate men do desperate things. But not me. I am Christian Trevelyan Grey, Master of the Universe. I am not desperate. I'm a Despot. (A person who wields power oppressively; a tyrant.)


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

I put down the manuscript I have been reading and enjoy looking at the clouds with the sunshine making them sparkle and the wind morphing them into strange shapes. Against the wall I notice Sawyer being chatted up by yet another woman. While GP is considered small by some other publishing houses' standards, it still employees over two thousand people all told. And so far I am thinking two hundred and fifty of the female portion has made it to the eighth floor to see if Sawyer, Ryan or Bron is interested in getting a drink together. At first my security squad were terrorized, or whatever the male mind calls it, when Allison and Sharlie and Morgan made the water cooler announcement that they were all hetero and available. But now I think they have bets on who gets which woman to make passes at them. Men are dogs, women are bitches.

My email is full again. A friend of a friend through my Super Friends gang has my phone and email accounts so active that I believe Facebook probably looks tame. The point of this is to ward off monitoring by Christian. My boyfriend. Not lover … well, not again until this weekend. If he doesn't fuck it up. Which he probably will since it is Christian Grey.

I wrench my mind back to my second job. Operation Get Troll Bitch. It's coming along quite well. And the reason my email stays busy. This guy, Clarence Derwood, is a king geek. We managed a meet during Thursday night karaoke – believe me getting a chance to actually talk with someone without Big Brother, i.e. Christian Grey, having security recording it is extraordinarily difficult. It was achieved by a tiny ear microphone that Morgan passed me and a fancy drink with four umbrellas – one of which was a speaker. It all felt very James Bond. Anyway, Clarence explained that all I had to do was look at any email, or text marked in the Subject line with a "K" at the beginning. Apparently Ks are not used in Subject lines very often. That meant I could scroll through all the extraneous emails and texts – work ones had their own private single solitary account – and pick out the ones from Sharlie, Allison and Morgan. Next, I didn't open the email, just looked at it in the preview pane. The actual message for me was written by the first letter of each sentence.

How cool was that? It wasn't going to win any awards by real code writers and breakers, Clarence told me, but it was going to work for my little criminal cartel. And by the way … he knew of Barney and Welch and I guess they are famous among their kind. He's thrilled to be pulling one over their eyes.

Now I look through my emails, delete the lot after pulling out a few cute animal ones. I'm a sucker for cute and needy animals so whenever I need a boost I have a file full of them to help lift my mood.

Today, Elena Lincoln is having bank trouble. A really big, really serious, bit of bank trouble. Never underestimate a girl with a 4.0 grade point average. English Lit may sound like an easy major, and OK, for me it wasn't a Class Five rapids – but it prepares a person for battle in more ways than one. High end businesses like dear sweet Elena owned in her Esclava Salons, used banks for money. That's all I really understood about it. She apparently had loans with banks. But Allison is more than a pretty face, and she's got contacts like you wouldn't believe. It has taken her three weeks and she says she had to suffer going out with a few rich bankers who had roaming hands like octopuses, but our next plan has come together.

At 4:00 Pacific Standard Time, her loans are being called due.

(Thank you to realpropertycheck dot com)

I guess the Troll Bitch who told Christian to punish my selling a cell phone pic with my friends ( it was of myself perfectly decent putting on some lip gloss ) – and we freaking gave the money to his Mom's Coping Together charity – by tying me up and making me pee all over the two of us, has been a very naughty girl. Financially. And girl is pushing it because the bitch is like in her fifties. Deep breaths, Ana. Deep, long breaths. In. Out. There.

Anyway, Troll Bitch has taken out several loans on top of loans. It's all very buried in complicated figures. Morgan dug it out in some of his spare time. That's when Allison went to work seducing bank presidents and such. So she's got lots of loans on what is a successful business. Why do you need loans if you've got money? Damned if I know. Or frankly care. Until I get my school loans paid off, I'm not even actually going to get a new car.

Oh, the snappy number Christian had delivered to me? A Submissive Special with all the bells and whistles any new car could possibly have? I had Cottie take it over to Escala and park it. When Christian attempted to argue with me about it, actually he was trying to order me to take it, I kicked his ass out of my and Kate's apartment. He didn't say another word about it. The money Taylor supposedly got for Wanda I spent on a used Volkswagen Bug, buying it for cash.

Anyway – God I am so unfocused today – Elena's loans are coming due. We arranged it for today because that gives her all weekend to find someone to bail her out. I won't be surprised if it is Christian, because he thinks of the Troll Bitch as his friend – stupid ass – and she's his only friend. But he's going to have to see that she's been pulling some shit with the finances for their little salon empire.

OK, now I've got a headache. My Inner Goddess is ignoring my mind working; she's got our suitcases packed for this weekend with bits of red, white and black lace, flavored body lotions, and a one bag full of condoms – because Christ knows what STDs Mr. Grey the manwhore could likely have. I just sent him a text asking to see the results of his last health check. At least she approves of that.

Anyways, this isn't about Christian. It's about a fellow woman who directed how this woman, me, was to be horribly humiliated for her like fourth sexual experience on this Earth. Allison had explained the loan situation to me over three texts, two emails, and a written passage in this manuscript I am reading.

_If you thought that timely payments on a commercial loan preclude foreclosure, think again. The standard loan on an investment property had usually been a 20 year commercial loan which is not callable, with interest re-adjustments after each 5 year period. Then lenders innovated. Balloon loans are commercial loans with a twist: they are still amortized over a period of 20 years with payments stretching over 20 years, but they can be called due after a period of twelve, seven or even five years. The lender still has the option to renew the loan, of course, but if they don't, the entire outstanding balance comes due in a lump sum. Bang! If the borrower can't pay, the lender can, quite obviously, foreclose._

Neat. Hope you enjoyed your peace of mind while you had it, Elena. Even if, or more likely when, Christian helps bail you out, I'm betting you're gonna be skittish around banks and loans for the rest of your life. I know I'd be.

Oh good. Here's Christian's text back.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Christian's POV

Now this is why I have Taylor on Team Grey and Flynn on speed dial. Anastasia just texted me wanting to know if I'm a safe sexual partner. The fury I feel is so profound that I've busted up my office furniture – not the first time. Plexiglas is the only kind of window I have in the entire top floor of the GEH building. Still, it is satisfying to see my desk chair bouncing off the floor to ceiling window. This last desk I purchased is too son of a bitch heavy to throw, so I enjoy kicking the shit out of it until it's in splintered pieces. Still … I'm careful not to destroy any of the pictures I have of Anastasia and my family. Some things are sacred.

How, how could she ask me this now? If she's smart enough to know what an STD is, then she should be smart enough to know that I wouldn't have chanced being with her if I had one. Sure as hell not when we started looking at the Sub contract. All the facts out on the table to see, baby. The only reason I didn't make her get tested was because I found out she was a virgin. And not the kind of virgin that still could have had something ugly running over her skin or inside her body. No, Anastasia was the real deal. So I let it go.

Who am I fooling? I would have fucked her if she had the Black Plague. Would fuck her right now until my penis shrivels up and falls off if she had some pernicious infection.

But this isn't about Anastasia. It's about me. She knows I've been with other women, and more particularly she's obviously worried about what kind of diseases we might have transmitted to one another. What's got me by the throat is that she even had to ask me. I would protect her, Anastasia, this woman who has entered my life and destroyed it with one deep velvet blue glance from under those long lashes, one curve of those full pouty lips, the sound of my name in her charming voice. I would protect Anastasia from everything, including me if I was sick or defective. All right, I am sick and defective. But not physically. Not sexually like she is asking about.

Taylor waits for me to settle a little, and then asks me what the problem is. He is obviously relieved when I tell him. Here's a tremendously huge difference in our roles. Normally he would just maintain silence, eyeing me from a distance to see if I needed medical assistance, then just hold up his piece of wall like a good bodyguard should do. But now he asks and I answer and then I seek input. So now I need details and insight.

"Sir, she hasn't cancelled going with you for the weekend. That was my initial thought. And obviously, given that it's Friday at 2 o'clock, she's just now thought of this. Which means that since you got her to agree on Monday she hasn't focused on your, ah, experience until just now. That's even better. And lastly, you had your last health check two months ago and I know good fucking well you've only been with Miss Steele since then. So email or text her the results and get down on your knees thanking God that you don't need to ask her for the same thing." He crosses his arms over his impressive muscled chest – I have to pay more than my own suit costs for the hand-sewn jackets Taylor wears so his weapons are exquisitely hidden and allows him freedom of movement to use them – and I know he's done speaking.

He's right. I know he is. But just to help me get rid of the remainder of the rage I felt that Anastasia would think I would subject her to anything less than my body at 100%, I call Flynn. His comment is that I'm lucky I don't have any sexually transmitted problems. He also reminds me to use condoms this weekend. Is he my fucking father? Besides, it's none of his business that I feel the only way to capture and domesticate the wild youthful being that is my Anastasia is to impregnate her. It would probably fall under one of those laws of psychiatrists about health and well-being risks, and he'd be forced through fucking goddamn ethics to tell her. As it is when I shared my urges to just take Anastasia to Dubai and lock her up so no one else can get to her, keep her for myself, he just about freaked. The man knows the difference between thoughts, plans, ideas and actions … that's why he's worried.

And he should be. If this weekend doesn't go well Anastasia may well try to end things with me and I'll have to take some kind of action. Christ, Grey, just breathe. Take a deep breath. Another. Now count. One. Two. Three … better. Everything is going to be perfect. I find the health check and text it to Anastasia.

Problem solved. Time to go get Anastasia soon anyway. Who knew that it was considered proper to go and pick her up myself? Well, with security driving typically because it frees me up to do work. But all these years I've always had someone pick up or take my Subs wherever they wanted or needed to go, even my parents, siblings, Elena … hell, business appointments. But Taylor tells me that it shows I can't wait to see Anastasia that I want to spend my time with her, even in regards to something as mundane as a car trip across town.

Again, under the knowledge that Taylor won't lead me wrong but because I put my trust in Elena and she had Anastasia running screaming from me, I called my Mom and double checked. Then I have to apologize – there's something I haven't sincerely said to my Mom in ten years – because I haven't been in the same vehicle with her since … when she and Dad took me to college? Shit, that's a long time. But I've sent cars for her over the years for one thing and another.

The left over negative emotions finally leave me and Andrea comes in with a tablet showing exclusive South African hand-carved office furnishings. I choose a new desk and chair; tell her to order the rest to replace what I've decimated with my outburst.

I hope that Anastasia is satisfied with the text. I have every intention of very gently, very tenderly, very thoroughly making love to her this weekend. Preferably as soon as we arrive. I even Googled it. No mistakes, no misunderstandings, no flaws. And no Dom. Just a man and a woman. OK, a very experienced man and a very innocent young woman. A sexually frustrated and deprived man who plans to satisfy himself repeatedly inside of the tight, very wet, extraordinarily well-fitting pussy of the most gorgeous woman on the planet. In every position she'll let me. I want to experiment with leg positioning, see how deep she can take me. Google said I'm not supposed to leave marks on her, even those that will disappear the next day, but I don't think that includes biting. I want to leave my mark on the inside of her thighs. One on each side. While I gradually introduce her to my finger gently stroking inside her virgin asshole. That should be allowed, shouldn't it?

Shit, fuck, damn! Now I gotta call Flynn and ask.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

So, I guess he really does get these things checked out. For all he said that his Subs were other professional women like me (does he think that somehow would mean they can't get an STD?) and were all given a clean bill of health before they signed with him (did Pimp Elena give him their health checks in person or is it part of a Submissive file that can be attached to an email? – BITCH!) Christian obviously has himself checked out regularly.

Honestly, I don't know whether to be relieved, pissed, or amused. I go with a small smirk. And now to the details …

HIV / AIDS: Blood test, oral swab test, and urine test. Negative.

Chlamydia: Physical exam, test of discharge from the anus and urethra, test of a cell sample from penis and anus, urine test. Negative.

Cytomegalovirus: Blood test. Negative.

Genital Warts: Physical exam with Colposcope. Negative.

Gonorrhea: Test of discharge from anus and urethra, test of a cell sample from penis and anus and throat, urine test. Negative.

Hepatitis B: Blood test. Negative.

Herpes: Blood test. Negative.

Intestinal Parasites: Test of a stool sample, proctoscopy test. Negative.

Molluscum Contagiosum: Physical exam, test of a cell sample. Negative.

Pubic Lice: Physical exam. Negative.

Scabies: Physical exam, test of a cell sample. Negative.

Syphilis: Blood test.  
Negative.

Trichomoniasis: Test of discharge from urethra. Negative.

And I guess that means this weekend is on.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

I packed last night and finished throwing some things into my suitcase this morning. Christian told me that all I needed to bring was a bathing suit, he suggested a bikini, shorts and t-shirt, and beach shoes, a pair of sturdy walking shoes, and a hat. I asked about dresses or pants for dinner or lunch and he said shorts would cover it. So I guess we're not going out anywhere fancy. My Inner Goddess who had been ransacking Kate's closet for the skimpiest and most expensive designer dresses had a screaming fit and pouted. I didn't blame her. When a guy asks a girl for a weekend away, she's expecting the sex. What she's hoping for is a chance to glam up and see and be seen. Or at least I was. I mean, how much sex can you have before you're too sore to walk?

Shaking my head I check the time. Three-thirty. Christian is picking me up out front of Grey Publishing at 3:45. And that man is serious about punctuality. So I close everything up, lock up, and say my goodbye to Morgan and Mr. Laumber, who approved my taking an early day. Morgan, well aware of the four o'clock plans for Troll Bitch, was on pins and needles. Honestly, he'd gone to Esclava to get an eyebrow design pluck and wax – the cheapest thing they did at Esclava, just so he could get a look at her. He hadn't been impressed and was now imagining what her expression would be like when the banker arrived in twenty-three more minutes.

I stopped by Sharlie's floor, six, and got a hug and kiss and wink. She and Allison and Kate had taken me lingerie shopping. For all we weren't supposed to talk about it, we'd had a great time laughing and giggling and learning things young women weren't supposed to know. Well, maybe our mothers' generation didn't talk about sex. Kate was in the lead and I asked plenty of detailed questions, believe me. But it should be noted that my two new friends had some ideas and experiences to share as well. My Conscience, ever alert and responsible, took plenty of notes under the theory that if you are going to do something, do it right. My Inner Goddess highlighted details, helpfully.

On the first floor I sidled over to Allison's desk area. She and another woman are responsible for greeting and directing people to the floor or office where they need to go. They are also the second line of defense after the men who greet people coming and going at the doors. If Allison and her partner feel a person or delivery is suspicious they contact building security who arrives to handle the problem. Security is always in the lobby but it's a big lobby and they do seem to get called to some of the offices a lot. Like Personnel and Claims; apparently people get pissed off in there. Allison finishes up with several people and gives Deirdre a quick smile to ask if she can have a minute. Deirdre smiles agreement and positions herself to be prepared for anyone new coming in.

Allison tells me about her plans with one of the banking guys, she wants to hear what all Troll Bitch has to say second hand, and promises she'll email me all the good details in the Clarence way. We giggle over a few more things, and then Sawyer interrupts politely to say that Mr. Grey's car is just coming around the corner. That's my cue to say goodbye and I turn, head for the floor as I trip over a potted plant beside the counter.

Have I mentioned I'm the most clumsy person I know? Well, that anyone knows? And just to show proof? Luke Sawyer, who is juggling my sidebag with several manuscripts I am taking along to work on this weekend while Christian inevitably deals with his own work (and unfortunately most likely Elena's little financial crisis), as well as the green tea latte that one of the girls at the coffee bar made and brought over while I was chatting with Allison – she's been trying to catch Luke's eye so I had only winked at her and grinned when she dashed over with it and handed it to my handsome security detail … Where was I? Oh yeah. So down I start to go, tripping over the heavy pot with its ferns, which I knew was there but managed to forget about yet again, and Luke has my sidebag and large hot green tea. But being an expert at Ana Clumsy, he manages to hook a knee up to my ass and keep me from going down. Now that is talent.

We all roll our eyes and smile, then I scoot outside as here comes the big black SUV looking twice the size on old reruns of that cop show with the redhead guy. Christian is a lot better looking and a lot younger than him, but he was hot, too.

Taylor has the door open when I get to the edge of the sidewalk and sees me inside just as smooth as silk. Sawyer is in the front seat beside him and there's another SUV in front of us and one slides behind us as I am getting in. If there is one thing I know it is that Christian is incredibly paranoid and super security minded. I start to smile at Christian, my excitement rivaled by nerves, but he gets ahold of my arm and yanks me onto his lap and right away latches his mouth onto mine. For a second I am shocked. I mean, since I ran away all but screaming from Escala and then said NO! to more of anything, he's been very gentle and tentative with me. I guess I expected that was going to be the plan for this weekend.

Wrong.

I've seen returning servicemen show more restraint. Gone is the tentative touch of his lips against mine, usually starting with one corner of my mouth and slowly lingering as they move to the other side. His lips whispering over mine, dipping to my chin, caressing my jaw, moving up to my eyebrow, then down to my nose which always makes me giggle. Then his lips skim over mine again, soft, slow, so very very warm, and begin to again discover my face like he's mapping out the terrain. After the forty or fiftieth time we sat on Kate and I's living room couch and Christian did that, I stopped being terrified he was going to do something very scary to me.

If he was trying to desensitize me, or prepare me I guess is the right term, for right this minute? It worked. I am frozen for barely a five count before I slide my hands up his chest well-protected by layers of cloth and my fingers move tentatively over his hard jaw, feeling the stubble that's grown there. It tickles and is harsh at the same time. But my real goal is his hair. It's thick and wavy and oh so very gloriously auburn. What do they say? Every blonde wants to be brunette and every brunette wants to be a red head? Trust me, the color of Christian's hair is every blonde and brunette's goal. I grab ahold of some of his hair, curl my fingers inwards to enjoy its texture and softness, all the while tilting my head back as he slides us down and my neck tips back over his arm. His tongue has taken over instruction to mine, showing me how he wants to be kissed, how he wants to kiss me. It's a rush of heat and wet, probing. He likes to lap at my tongue, the top, bottom, then right side, then left. The tip moves over the roof of my mouth, then he sweeps back to fiercely fight with me once more.

I swear to God I forget to breathe. He finally pulls back when I've all but lost consciousness and orders me to breathe. I get a good gasp in, glancing in horror toward the front seat. Taylor may be used to these displays, but Sawyer's not. They've got the privacy window up and darkened, which all I get to notice before Christian is on his knees on the thick carpeting of the SUV's floor, both hands curving around my head, his fingers managing to get my strict chignon undone even as he leans over me (when did I get horizontal?) and takes my mouth again. Oh God its two hundred degrees in here! I need my clothes off. Right now. Apparently Christian agrees with my silent thought because he begins working on my dress, fighting off my belt then going for the hidden buttons along the cross-wise top.

**_Bang!_**


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Ever been in a car accident? More particularly, car crash?

First, let me assure you that Christian's SUV has every safety feature known to man. Like air bags. Lots and lots of air bags. I think the exploding plastic off of them is the deadly feature they don't advertise. Those flying pieces can cause a lot of damage. It's only by the Grace of God that I didn't lose an eye. But I did get a black one from the air bag itself. I'm not sure which one of those supposed safety balloons got me but I gave Luke very firm instruction to punish it as soon as he knew. I think that's what I told him as I was pretty out of it from the shock. How did I know I was going to have a blackened eye? Specifically the left one? Because I fall down a lot and I know when I've just wopped my eye and when I've popped it hard enough so all those sensitive blood vessels and whatever decide to burst.

Trust me, I was going to have a shiner.

Christian is yelling at the top of his lungs. Maybe the bottom, too. It's not helping things but I'll give him a pass this time. From what I can understand as I lay on the roof of the fancy Christian Grey vehicle waiting for the fire department to show up and use the Jaws of Life to pry open this tin can enough so I can crawl out safely, we were hit by a speeding truck. I am assuming we at least rolled over enough that the SUV is on its top, but we may have rolled a few times as we seem to be in grass and it's fairly long. So I'm guessing we're over a hillside from whatever road we were on. Excuse me for not knowing, I was busy trying to get some sex.

Luke is lying down in the grass and peering at me through a hole in the wrinkled metal. I know he thinks I'm injured badly, Christian who must have been thrown clear or gotten out, thinks I'm dead. I hear Taylor and what sounds like Cottie trying to get it through Christian's thick head that I'm alive. Jeez that man can yell!

"Ana." Luke Sawyer is projecting calm confidence as I get a half view of his face. "The fire department will be here soon. We'll get you out of there. Other than shooting an airbag," he returns my joke, "is there anything else I can do?"

"Just make sure Christian doesn't kill whoever was driving what hit us," I direct. I can hear a lot of things and close my one good and one swelling eye to listen. People, vehicles, sirens in the distance. Then I hear Christian, his melodious voice calling softly to me.

"Anastasia? Darling, are you in there?"

Now that had to be the stupidest thing I have ever heard. He must have realized it because Christian chuckles.

"I guess that was a foolish question. Baby, how badly are you hurt?" His tone strains at being light now.

"Well, it's kind of cramped," I am reassuring him. "Is this what our plans were for the weekend?"

He barks out a laugh. "No."

"Hmm. More of what we were doing?" Which probably saved our lives. I don't know how Christian got out, whether it was voluntary or involuntary, but if we'd been sitting I suspect we'd both be broken off at the neck.

"If you were willing," he admits now after he gets his throat cleared. "Baby. Anastasia. I'm so sorry."

I hold off on my response, in case he's going to define what he's sorry for. I mean, he's got an entire laundry list of what I don't think I've heard enough "I'm sorry" for. But then the fire trucks arrive along with the police and they get to work on using their can opener to release the tuna fish – that's me. More of Christian's security has arrived as I identify some voices. They are keeping people and press away from Christian and the dead SUV, anything that could possibly take a photo or video is warned off, some confiscated. I know the size and threatening demeanor of Taylor and his team members – I'd hand over my cell phone with camera if I was told to by one of them. Christian is held back and I am honored that Taylor threatens to shoot several of my rescuers if they're not careful getting me out. I mean how un-careful is he expecting them to be?

The scariest part is when the machines they are using cause sparks. I'll admit to a lot of whimpering over that. I can only think of movies with giant gasoline explosions … and my hair. Those sparks catch the hairspray on my hair and I'm bald with burns. Then there is the horrendous screeching of metal being pried open over top of my head. I get a sudden burst of sunlight and the vehicle rocks around suddenly, skidding further downwards. I am not waiting for another rock and roll. With the strength of a kangaroo on methamphetamines I hop up and out of the vehicle.

I must have scared everyone half to death because they all take a giant step back. Except for Christian. He charges through the large men in their fire department coats and heavy equipment and hugs me like he's not letting go. Ever.

Of course, he has to. The EMTs want to check me out. But the drama is over. I'm fine. Yes, I'm gonna have a black eye, for which they recommend some Tylenol and a cold pack. And I might be a little stiff and sore, so take a warm bath, drink plenty of fluids and stay normally active. Otherwise my pulse, respirations, heart rate, blood pressure and pupils are all just as they should be. Luke must be religious because he's praying again under his breath. Christian gets ahold of me, lifts me in his arms and buries his face into my hair. And then he doesn't move again. At least until Taylor gives him a not too gentle shove and pulls him along to where another vehicle waits for us.

Christian very gently puts me down inside of a long black limousine. He fastens the seatbelt from shoulder to hip, then slides carefully against me and attaches his own. Then he very gently kisses me. Starting at the corner of my mouth his lips cherish me, touching with feathery lightness until he reaches the other corner. After that he loops an arm around me and urges my head against his chest. "Do you want to go home, baby?"

I think about it. "This place you were taking me to. It has beds? A bathtub?"

He smiles. I feel it all the way from where I have my ear pressed over his heart. "Yes."

"Then it makes no never mind to me. I can take a bath and sleep at my apartment or whatever hotel you've got us booked into." And after this little adventure I deserve some luxury.

"You're amazing," he whispers into my hair, and then gives the order to Taylor to, "Proceed as planned."

Amazing? No. Just well experienced with black eyes. And I'm hoping this gentle thing won't go on all weekend, since he's obviously shook up. I mean before the car accident? We were HOT.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

I am not a gold digger. I am not interested in any person for their bank account. People talk about power; well, I don't even know what that means. Unless you are a King, Queen or President of the United States, I don't see how your girlfriend or boyfriend could wield power over others. I know, deep, deep in my Conscious and Inner Goddess minds that I could hand Christian Grey my school loan papers and he would pay them off. It wouldn't even faze him. Probably not even emotionally, certainly not financially. I wouldn't ever do that, those loans are a matter of pride and show that I can be trusted to repay my debt to the US government, but the idea is what matters here.

When a billionaire, a goddamn B – BILLIONAIRE (exactly how many zeros is that and how much money is that?) … When a billionaire asks a girl away for a weekend, there are some certain thoughts and expectations that float through even the most innocent of minds. Simple things like restaurants with white table cloths and candles, a stretch limousine with some of those little rose buds stuck in vases between the windows, and champagne – the really good stuff that you never had before you met him and never will again once he's gone.

And when he says to pack only a bikini and shorts? Well, some exclusive place you see on Travel Channel's Top Ten Romantic Beach Getaways comes to mind. Sandy shores with the ocean lapping at them, magical villas, palm trees swaying in the constant breeze … all right! I'll admit my Inner Goddess luxuriating on a massage table getting herself rubbed in oil by a professional masseuse came to mind! And I thought about chocolate covered strawberries while looking out over one of those pools that drop off into nowhere so it looks like your next step is right into the ocean. And I expected tropical drinks with chunks of exotic fruit sticking up. Maybe a steak – OK! I was expecting thinking of a really big steak cooked medium-well with a baked potato slathered in real butter and chives and sour cream! Screw the diet so I'd keep fitting into Kate's clothes – I wanted to eat on the billionaire's account!

But this is nice. Really. Nice. I mean Bainbridge Island is just across the Puget Sound from Seattle. We even took the standard Ferry across. And he rented out all three bedrooms at the Yeomalt Beach House. Kinam and Eric – the owners - seem really nice. And they are just all ready to open their kitchen to me when Christian states snarkily that I love to cook and then informs them that they won't be needed for the rest of the weekend. I guess Andrea must have warned them about Christian because they don't seem surprised and slip away.

I guess that means I'm making the beds, too. I check out their brochure.

Yeomalt Beach House

Welcome! You can't get closer to the beach than this! Walk miles in each direction at low tide, enjoy abundant marine wildlife. Swim, fish or snorkel, have a campfire, or just have a barbecue or relax on our large decks, flagstone terraces and beautiful flower gardens. Every convenience and luxury is found at the Yeomalt Beach House!

The Beach House is built just steps from the beach's high tide mark. You will enjoy views of the busy Puget Sound shipping lanes North from Mount Baker to the Seattle skyline. The home is beautifully furnished with antique furniture and showcases the work of local artists. This home's fusion of Victorian and Arts and Crafts architecture will amaze you - every convenience and luxury is found within.

The main level features heated Pennsylvania bluestone floors, and a double-sided, bluestone fireplace that rises to the 11-ft (3.4m) beamed ceiling. The kitchen has two large sinks, a refrigerator, Viking gas stove, Miele microwave and steam oven and dishwasher, plus a wine cooler! The house is also equipped with U.S./Canada phone service, a stereo, three HD-televisions and wi-fi Internet.

Overlooking the beach, the Master Suite has a double-sided fireplace, a master bath built of limestone and granite, featuring a 2-person shower, jacuzzi tub and stained glass by a local artist. The upstairs floors are milled from salvaged Bainbridge Island red alder. Two generous guest bedrooms share another beautiful bathroom. The laundry room includes two washers and two dryers.

In the garden, harvest your favorite fresh herbs, berries and vegetables! Eagles, blue herons, waterfowl, seals, sea lions, otters and even the occasional orca whale can be seen from the beach! The local beach dogs are also welcoming and friendly.

Thank you for your interest! We look forward to hearing from you.

- Kinam & Eric

Their home is lovely and I look out at the beach and the shipping lanes with their giant magnate boats busily delivering goods out of their big bellies. While Christian is going over security with Taylor, Luke trails me as I give the deck and grounds a quick peak. Really, it's all perfect. I would just recommend it immediately to anyone and everyone, and I haven't even seen the bedroom yet. Beautiful.

I mean what girl doesn't want to go to a Puget Sound B&B for a romantic getaway? Just because I have the same, if 180 degree view, from the front windows of GP. And just because I can always see the same ships jockeying and jostling any time I get near Seattle's waterway. And Christian's right, I do enjoy cooking. Sawyer tips me off that security will be in a separate guest house one hundred yards away. So I get the numbers of how many of CG Security will be here – I need to know how many to cook for. Do I make their beds too? Surely not. But who knows what Christian expects.

Expectations are stupid. Really. I mean, we both know he brought me here for sex. And since we're going to be the only occupants in the house I am guessing he's expecting us to get loud. So why spend the time and money on something more … rich?

My Conscience has waited patiently, sitting on Kate's Rimowa Salsa Deluxe Hybrid 32" Multiwheel suitcase. It's actually made from Kevlar … because you know Kate's luggage should expect a barrage of bullets from bad guys at any minute. My lips twitch as the humor sets in. My Conscience begins her reality check, bringing me back in line. I am not the type of girl a man, even a billionaire, sets out to impress. Christian wants my body and I've already shown that I'll hand it over no matter what as long as he exhibits a little effort. He's shared with me his tours of exotic locations: France, England, Russia, Germany, Switzerland, Dubai, Greece, Italy … I've lapped it all up. To him, this lovely house on the Sound has got to be just as exotic to him. Exotic meaning different. Kate and my's apartment is as close to slumming as he's been since he was four years old, and Kate's Mom had a decorator in and bought the furnishings, mostly.

She brings me back on topic with a smart slap across my Inner Goddess' face. That poor girl has collapsed on the deck below my shredded hosiery feet, mourning the tropical paradise massage. My Conscience points out that no one else in my life has ever offered to take me to such a nice place as this and I need to appreciate it. And it's not just one room, Christian rented out the whole place. I'll bet the kitchen's stocked as well as that brochure-mentioned wine cooler!

Hard lightly furred arms slide around me and I sigh as Christian brings me against his chest. In the past three weeks he has flinched every time I am pressed against his chest, but there has been no pushing me away. In fact, it is Christian who has initiated this contact each time. And the almost palpable desperation on his face has faded to simple panic quickly controlled. My head fits just right under his collarbone … or is it clavicle? Great, another thing to look up when I get a free minute. But now I look out over the waters and watch the sun begin to head into the West. "This is the most beautiful thing anyone has ever done for me," I tell him, crossing my arms over his as they hold me to his body. "Thank you, Christian."

His body curves over mine and his lips move in my hair. I feel his hesitation, and then he murmurs, "I just want you to enjoy yourself, Anastasia."

"I'm sure we will," I return. My eye hurts and I haven't looked in a mirror yet. Am I supposed to unpack for both of us? I'm certain Christian will want his things placed perfectly in a closet or drawers. I'd be fine just living out of Kate's suitcase but Mr. Perfectionist would never go for that. "Why don't you choose a wine while I get us unpacked?" And check out my face. "I'll have to look in the kitchen, see what to make everybody."

He turns me in his arms, holding me close, and I watch his eyes track over my swollen face. I really need to get to a mirror and check out the damage. He uses his mouth to gently touch me, soothing the ache of new injury. My eyes both close as he continues mapping my face. My nose, my cheekbones, the eyebrows Kate carefully "designed", forehead, chin, and finally my lips. All very gently, very softly.

Well, so much for hot and heavy. When he raises his mouth I step away, he lets go after a brief tightening of those muscled arms. I work my agenda for the evening onto a dry erase board in my mind. None of my inner women are interested in using it, so I may as well help myself. First, get to a bathroom and check out my face. Second, unpack Christian's suitcase or suitcases, and I guess mine as well. Third, make dinner for six and remember that these people eat like truck drivers at a freebie buffet. Fourth, clean up the kitchen. Fifth, get a bath to soak my already stiffening body. Sixth … and most important …

Christian Grey owes me several orgasms. I'm gonna collect.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Christian's POV

Jesus, thank you, Jesus. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Whatever you want, it's yours. Just let me know. I owe you. Amen.

I hope that's the way people pray. It's a part of my education Mom and Dad and Elena didn't address. Mom says that she believes in God and refuses to be drawn into any religious conversations. Dad says God hates lawyers and throws in a joke whenever someone asks him. Elena? I've never heard her say a word about any kind of deity. As kids … well, I think I bloodied the minister's kid's nose and that was the last time I went to church with my family. I got to stay home with the staff. I was maybe … eight? I'm sure my Mom remembers the exact date and probably the weather that day. If she doesn't my Dad would – and he could tell you whatever the headline news was for that date.

Now, I watch Anastasia fast asleep on a blanket I put down over the sand. The July heat is still heavy and oppressive but with the sun's escape and the Sound right in front of us cooler air helps relieve it. Now that she's asleep the orca whales we were watching surface and frolic under the moonlight slip away, as if they know their most attentive audience member has released them. She spent the last half hour riveted, trying uselessly to catch them on her cell phone's camera and repeatedly grabbing my arm to catch my attention as she pointed them out. It was so cute. She's so cute. I hadn't noticed anything as cute, ever, unless it was something Mia was pointing out. Anastasia has that same enthusiasm at times. I try not to make the connection between her and Mia age-wise as well as energy and light-hearted or should I say open-hearted attitudes. I would have already had Taylor deal with a man who treated Mia like I've treated Anastasia.

Taylor appears and briefly considers Anastasia as he comes down on his haunches beside me, then turns his head to look at the ocean with its repetitive rolling action. The moonlight is bright but my chief of security could probably see in the dark if it wasn't. Taylor has a skill set that covers all situations. "We can't find anything on the driver of the truck. No relationship to anyone you are involved with past or present. Just a drunk, long history. It is a miracle no one was killed." By no one he obviously means Anastasia. "He's got a fractured spine, head injuries. Should be out of hospital for his initial hearing."

I'm relieved to know this wasn't an attack on me. Just bad luck, one of those accidents of natural order. "Any idea on what the charges will be," I ask quietly, my hand stroking Anastasia's hair as it fans out across the blanket.

"My contacts at the Seattle PD and DA's office say four counts of attempted manslaughter, as well as the usual reckless endangerment, DUI and others. He's lucky Miss Steele wasn't injured worse." Taylor's voice holds a promise if she had been. He takes a last look down at my beautiful girl, then stands and walks away.

I agree. The truck had caught up the SUV and tossed it like a child throwing a block. Myself, Taylor and Sawyer had been thrown out. I hadn't been wearing my seatbelt, intent on bringing Anastasia back to my side of the carnal world, and somehow gone through I am guessing the back window. I've got a good sized bruise across the upper part of my back, but that was my only ill-effect. Taylor and Sawyer, neither belted in which is standard operating procedure for security as they could need to move fast and the restraints of seat belts would hamper their movements; had also been thrown out of the SUV. Taylor reports his right shoulder was dislocated but he "took care of it" which I am guessing means he or Sawyer jammed it back into the socket and that was considered fixed. Sawyer denied any injuries but is moving slowly and stiffly. While Anastasia was unpacking our things I called my physician and an hour later Katt arrived via chopper with a filled prescription of pain killers. We were like a bunch of druggies, every one of us from the destroyed SUV taking a pill before dinner.

A dinner which my gorgeous Anastasia threw together as if she was a master chef. She wanted everyone to eat together, what she calls "family style", but I nixed that and she had to give in when I pointed out that we were here for a weekend together, not as a family outing. I honestly would have been angry with her for even suggesting that, but the emotion wouldn't seem to solidify and maybe I am beginning to recognize that such gestures are who Anastasia is. But I got my way and we enjoyed the spaghetti with a superior red sauce my little chef put together from the gardens here at this bed and breakfast, matched with a barely acceptable wine. She had a pile of garlic bread, cheese bread and something she called eggplant bread. That was actually good and I told her to tell Mrs. Jones that recipe. I made a mental note right then to compliment her cooking frequently because Anastasia smiled and blushed and then got up from her chair and came to me and kissed me.

That's all it took to make her come to me. The first time she's initiated anything intimate between us since she ran from Escala. All I had to do was say I wanted my housekeeper to have a recipe for eggplant bread and Ana willingly lays her mouth on mine. I almost took her right then on the dining table, I'm pretty sure she would have let me, but restrained myself.

And now did I regret that. It hadn't occurred to me as I insisted everyone take one of the white pills that Anastasia weighs almost half of what the rest of us do so would be affected more strongly. That fact and she obviously doesn't take anything stronger than Tylenol or Advil. She'd gone half loopy before dinner was over and fought the sleep-inducing effects of the pain killer in her excitement over the whale watching until it finally kicked her sweet ass.

So much for sex on the beach. That's all right, though. She's been through quite enough for the day. She needs to rest and let her body heal. If the EMTs hadn't assured me that Anastasia's vitals were perfect, I would have had her at the closest hospital, my Mom on the way to run every test known to man. But even I could see she was fine other than the blackening eye. The way she came up out of the SUV when it started to shift and turn, the fire department pulling back to allow the ropes holding the destroyed vehicle tightening and straining as they were fixed to the large water truck at the top of the hill – it had been amazing. Like a superhero. Super Woman. It was like she almost flew up and over the twisted metal, landing in a panther-like crouch then rising to her feet gracefully.

I stop my thoughts right there. My emotions are firmly blocked and put back into their vault. I will deal with my horror with Flynn on Monday. Now, I need to get my girl into the house and upstairs into the king-sized bed where I am going to sleep beside her tonight. With that thought in mind I scoop her up and stand, looking out at the ocean and thinking that I could buy this place. It was special now because we had been here, together, watching whales breach and hunt. Myself and Anastasia on our first romantic weekend getaway. I'll check with Taylor tomorrow or Sunday to see if that would be appropriate. We could come back here every year to commemorate this first. Maybe I won't order the fucker killed who was driving the truck that could have killed my Anastasia. Just send him a special beating annually to mark the occasion. Annually and anally. I smirk.

I put Anastasia down on our bed and undress her slowly. She's definitely in a drug-induced sleep so I can enjoy myself. I start with her sandals, taking them off then beginning to get to know her feet. I've met people at clubs who have feet fetishes. Not my style. But I could spend time lapping my tongue over every part of Anastasia's sweet feet. They are delicate, high arched, the toes topped with neon pink polish – it makes me smile. Her soles are slightly dirty and I brush the sand off them, then go to the bathroom and bring back a warm soapy wash cloth and dry towel. Then I search through her bag and find the brown sugar body lotion she uses and I massage it onto her feet. I'd be embarrassed for anyone to know I was doing this – Christian Grey does not bow to anyone's feet, people bow to me! But the truth of the matter is that I feel honored to touch Anastasia in any way. She is my goddess.

Once I am satisfied with the soft and sugary fragrance of my love's feet, I unbutton and unzip her shorts, take them down those slim sexy legs, leaving her in a lacy black thong. Well, since she had a quick shower and changed out of her work dress that had been slightly torn in the car accident, and these are what I would call sex panties, which must mean she planned to let me have her tonight. Three weeks of holding myself in check and taking things slow had obviously worked. Taylor and Flynn just earned themselves some serious bonuses. I stroke my fingers over the soft skin of her bare hips and down the outside of her long thighs and all the way down to her toes. I can't help myself; I spend a few more minutes sucking on her toes. If Anastasia were awake I know she would be giggling and trying to get away, so I'd best enjoy myself now. But the call of her body is too much for me and I have to sit back up and run my palms this time over her hips, thighs, the rounded knees, her calves that fit into my palms, and back to those feet.

"What are you doing?" I look up her body and find Anastasia's blurry blue gaze shining at me from the pillows. That left eye is still swollen but the purpling already looks a little better. The bedside lamp highlights the hair tumbled around her head, various strands shining and glowing with health and vitality. She's beautiful. Then she giggles – Lord she is still stoned on that one pain pill. "Foot fetish," she mumbles and shakes her head. Then her eyes close and she drops her head back onto the pillows and doesn't move again.

I huff out a sigh and flop onto my back. All right, she's got to wake up some time. I've got work to do and Taylor let me know that Elena – who I've forwarded all contact attempts to my security chief – has made multiple urgent (he said screeching like a shrew) calls and emails, a dozen texts. I give my dick that's hard as stone a sympathetic pat, then get up and grab my laptop. From the balcony I can watch Anastasia sleep and see the water with its busy ships and occasional breaching whale. Other than the accident and I've drugged her into insensibility, things seem to be going well so far.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

(Thank you to "Deep Memories" for assistance with certain details in this chapter …)

I wake early and immediately recognize my problem. Christian is draped around me like a flag on a coffin and he's once more overheated my system. If this thing is going to work – and I'm not taking any bets – then we need to have a little talk about me having a fan on my side of the bed. Otherwise one morning I'm not going to wake up, just be a cooked veggie.

It's dark in the room but moonlight shines in through the windows with the curtains still pulled back, and from open patio doors. More than enough for me to ogle a partially naked Christian Grey. His hair is messy and falls across the pillow and his face, just begging for my hands to smooth it back. Now when have I ever resisted something begging me? I brush my fingers over the strands until they are all falling back over his head and to the pillows. That task done I lean on my elbows and study him. He's muscled. Lovely flowing muscles that come from all those daily workouts. I've never seen him work out but I need to find a way to do so. He's got all these ridges and platforms and swells of muscle that his warm white flesh covers. Really, he needs to spend more time in the sun. Or get a spray tan. That makes me smile. While Christian Grey obviously has a great hair stylist, and I don't even need to take a bet – I know he has his fingernails and feet done professionally. The fact that it is probably done at Esclava and with my luck by the Troll Bitch herself … well, that thought's taken care of my lusty ideas for how to wake the stupid son of a bitch up!

Now I ease away and head to the bathroom. Business over I take a good look at myself. I'm wearing only the matching lace bra and thong – Kate's idea because a thong is not my idea of any kind of comfort wear – and a black eye. I check it out closely and am relieved that it doesn't look like more than a three to five day bruise. I've had those two week ones and they hurt like a mother. I put my hair into a ponytail then jump into the lovely two-person shower and wash off my night sweat. I just about slip on the tile and kill myself taking a header into the water knobs. What the hell? I check my feet, which are slippery. Who the hell put lotion on the bottom of my feet? I get a memory flash of Christian sucking on my toes and stare down at the offenders. Wiggle them.

Hell fire and damnation! Why couldn't he have that kind of overwhelming obsession, fetish, dysfunction, whatever – instead of beating women black and blue and punishing them in what he finds fun ways. I could allow him to cover my feet with guacamole and lick it off. He could take pictures. Tie my little tootsies up with seaweed rope. Maybe tickle them … until I pee myself. EWWWW! OK! Weird thoughts over.

Teeth brushed, flossed, mouthwash, moisturize, deodorant then I put on a white set of lacy underthings and cover it with sensible baby blue ankle socks, shorts and t-shirt. Sneakers and I'm done! Downstairs I find Cottie and Ryan in the kitchen with mugs of coffee and playing scrabble. While I get two deep dish trays of Amish Breakfast Casserole going we talk quietly. I find out the details of the car accident. The poor guy who hit us is going to be in one of those halo casts for an estimated three months. I get his name and the hospital and order him a get well flower basket – cell phones have their myriad uses. Once the food is in the oven I set the timer with strict instructions to Ryan to take both pans out when it goes off. Just to be sure (he is a man) I have him set his Blackberry and his wristwatch alarms as well. Then I go out to the beach with Cottie to loosen up my body with Tai Chi.

My Conscience welcomes me as she is already on the beach watching the Sun try to make its way from the East Coast to our part of the continent. She is standing beside my Inner Goddess who knows that exercise is important if we want to keep up with the sex god who is still sleeping in that big bed inside the beach house. My Sub-Conscience, who rarely joins us for anything except emergencies and extreme situations, is here this morning. I think the car accident shook her tree a little as of us all she's got one heck of a black eye going on.

Tai chi helps reduce stress and anxiety. And it also helps increase flexibility and balance. I think I mentioned before that my Dad taught it to me in an attempt to introduce some form of body control and decrease my inherent clumsiness. Tai chi involves a series of movements performed in a slow, focused manner. Originally developed for self-defense, tai chi has evolved into a graceful form of exercise that's now used for stress reduction. Often described as meditation in motion, tai chi promotes serenity through gentle, flowing movements and is practiced as a graceful form of exercise. It involves a series of movements performed in a slow, focused manner and accompanied by deep breathing. Each posture flows into the next without pause, ensuring that your body is in constant motion.

It works. Trust me. Otherwise Ray would have put me into a big plastic ball full of cotton balls and I'd be a movie of the week or after school special about a girl who gets hurt every time she stands up. Did I mention the few months I fell out of bed every night until Ray put mattresses around my bed? Hell, I fell out of bed last year and was on crutches for a week from a wrenched knee. So imagine what I'd be like without Tai Chi.

There is a beautiful long pier that reaches out into the bay that slowly comes into sight as the sun rises. There are several boats docked and as the light reflects off the gentle waves I see small bodies. For a moment I freeze, watching. They have obviously been watching me for some time. Cottie must be a city girl through and through because she about has heart failure when I automatically move off the sand and onto the deck. Either that or it just alarmed her when I took off at a full sprint to see what had caught my attention. I think my slow steady exercise movements had almost put her back asleep.

By the time I am seated a few feet from my new friends I hear the troops coming. Normandy probably had less weaponry; they're all armed with guns. D-Day may have been louder as Taylor and Sawyer (they lied because there is one heck of a lot more guys than six including Cottie) and company aren't making any noise other than their feet as they come charging onto the deck. Christian really needs to work on his speed because he's come in third place as they freeze about twenty-five yards away and have a NATO conference.

Who is afraid of cute otters? Or maybe they're seals. I honestly don't know. From their size I'd say otters. Heck, they're not whales or sharks. I'm sure of that. Regardless I put my finger to my lips to warn them to be quiet before I refocus to my own wildlife show. When will I ever get a chance again to be so close to these lovely liquid-eyed creatures? It's enchanting. Forget Travel Channel's Top Ten, this is priceless and I am going to give Christian the blow job of the century for giving me this opportunity to experience life at its fullest. Obviously these are fairly tame if still wild creatures. My guess is that the owners of the Bed and Breakfast feed and pet these lovely beings daily; it would be quite a nice feature to be able to allow guests this opportunity that I now have.

There are two baby creatures and two adult ones. One of the babies makes it the few feet to me and I automatically scoop it up into my arms. Little whiskers tickle my face although I am careful to stay out of reach of whatever teeth it may have. I am an old hand at rescuing creatures and know that friendly-appearing or not, a creature is dangerous no matter what.

Cottie and Sawyer are busy saying their morning devotionals. I am just amazed at the religious intensity of those in Christian's employee. He's pretty crazy so maybe it's just a natural result of working for him.

"Miss Steele," Taylor hisses along the dawn-wet planks, "put the baby otter down."

So, it's an otter. It is so cute!

"Anastasia, put the fucking animal down," Christian also hisses.

Really? They both sound like snakes. That should scare the otters. But I don't know what procedures Kinam and Eric use with these things and they may not actually let their guests handle the otters. So I set the small thing down and make a mental note to look up more information on them later this morning. And I need to see if Christian can get ahold of the owners and find out what they feed them, when, and can I pet them some more?

"Anastasia, I want you to crawl backwards to me," Christian orders. "Just move slowly and crawl backwards. Don't show any fear."

I turn my head and look at him. Seems to me that is about what I did and still do with him. I can't believe these huge strong people with guns still showing – well, not Christian – are worried about little sea creatures. Ignoring his orders I stand up and give a little wave to the four creatures and turn to walk back to the mob of security and one boyfriend (can I define Christian as that?) who is still getting that blowjob. They make the cutest sounds – the otters – when I leave them. Taylor reaches out as I come close, gets ahold of my upper arms with a fast grab and literally tosses me off to Christian.

That's such a shock – Taylor putting his hands on me roughly - that I barely note Christian wrap me in his arms like a kid with a bee sting on her foot and tramples off the dock like some mutant Godzilla monster is going to climb on the pier and chase us. I always thought that scene from the Godzilla movie was great. Christian jogs up the sand, crosses the deck and strides inside the house, silent. I crane my neck to be sure Ryan has taken the food out of the oven and see it on the stove top as I'm carried through the hallway and then up the steps.

I put my head to the side and look up at Christian's face. Sure enough, he looks pissed. But honestly, when doesn't he? He gets to our room and puts me down on my feet. He's all red-faced and ready to yell, hands going from my body to his hair to drag through all that glorious red mass. Ignoring his drama which has after three wonderful weeks of absence, returned, I drop to my knees and yank his pajama pants down those trim hips.

"What the hell are you doing," he screams, getting the first crescendo out, stumbling backwards. His feet are tangled in the fancy pin striped pajama bottoms and his knees are against the bed. Down he goes into a perfect sitting position. Works for me. I lean in and use my tongue to take a long lick up, then another. "Jesus H Christ," he yells and twists his hands into my pony tail.

I smile at him, at myself, and get to work. He has no doubt had endless women sucking his cock, every which way imaginable. Experts. The most beautiful women imaginable. I'll just bet all kinds of Hollywood celebrities come into Seattle for the BDSM nightclubs and he's had 'em all on their knees. Well too damn bad. Because now he's going to have to put up with my efforts. And after a few internet searches and Kate (in the privacy of Kate's bathroom after Elliot assured her it doesn't have surveillance like the rest of the apartment) doing some educational instruction using a large dildo with some very impressive plastic appendages, I am better prepared than … well, Christian was my only times so I am just better prepared to give him some pleasure. It's not just getting his massive cock head to the back of my throat and using my tongue, swallowing. Although that is a great start I am sure. A guy apparently has a terrific orgasm when the buildup is slow and steady.

I blink up at him, give him a flirtatious (I hope) smile, then show him what a woman with a 4.0 grade point average can do on the subject of her choice.

I show Christian my enthusiasm. The best fellatio involves a giver who is totally into it, aroused, even a little worshipful. I quickly enjoy the sense of giving involved in this extremely intimate act. Just as the otters at sunrise, by being only themselves gave me pleasure, now I give pleasure to this Master of the Universe by simply being me. I have no time to set the scene; there will be other opportunities to try any of the multitudes of ways my girlfriends and the World Wide Web have coached me in. Now I simply pull Christian's sleep pants off and urge him back onto the bed hoping I am building his anticipation and arousal to a tantalizing level. He moves to touch me and I silently place his hands down on the tousled bed sheets. I shake my head, my pony tail bouncing lightly, making sure his palms are on the sheets. This is about Christian's orgasm and my enjoyment in it.

I start slowly. Touching, licking the sides of his neck, his earlobes, his shoulders; I avoid his chest, his nipples, and his ribcage because now isn't the time to push his limits. I tease him with kisses and caresses graze my teeth against his skin and stroke my fingertips from his toes to his hair. My sounds are vocal, moaning with pleasure when I find his hard biceps. I'm not advanced enough to talk dirty to him, but I try to let him know how much I relish contact with him. Some day he'll let me kiss and lick, nibble and nip at his chest; all those muscles there shouldn't be neglected, as well as those pebble-hard brown nipples. Gradually I am working my way to his big guy with a break taken licking and sucking his fingers so he gets a preview of what is in store for his cock. My eyes are closed as I take time and savor his entire body. The day is heating up and time passes; when I glance toward a panel of light I see from behind closed eyelids the sun is up and shining through the patio doors and windows.

My eyes track to the man on the bed beneath me as I crouch over him, still dressed, my sneakers making the sheets sandy as well I suppose his feet are from coming onto the beach at dawn to rescue me from the big bad friendly otters. He's watching me, those grey eyes hooded, heavy with passion and lust. But he's got his hands once more flat on the bed – well, his fingers are clawed into it. That makes me smile. My eyes lift to his once more and I smile. For him. Just for Christian Grey. "I've been studying."

He swallows heavily.

"I'm a good student."

He nods.

I'll take that as permission. I'd really like to get us both and the bed clean of sand. But it seems like that would interrupt the flow of things. So I'll just wing it. Standing beside the bed I undress. Shirt, shorts, shoes, socks, bra and underwear. All hit the floor over his pajamas. Lastly, although I really don't want to because the thought of, um, juices, in my hair is not my thing. But a girl taken away for a weekend needs to not be squeamish. I watch his face once more. I haven't taken my course in sensual undressing yet. Belatedly I realize I should have widened my course curriculum. Well, there's always time … Considering his cock is standing high and proud and his balls are riding high against the base of that monster, I take it I am pleasing Christian so far.

I get back on the bed and begin to get acquainted with the big guy. I place him in my mouth and explore with my tongue. There is a sense of delight in the sensation of red rover getting larger and stiffer. I can do this to him. Me. Little plain Anastasia Rose Steele from Montesano who likes to read and falls down at least twice a day. I hum in pleasure as I explore every inch of Christian Grey's cock with my hands, mouth and tongue. I run my tongue along the shaft, note the texture, each vein and bulge, tease my tongue along his testicles, and explore the difference in texture there. Then I place a testicle in my mouth and suck. After both his balls get attention I move back up the shaft slowly, working my way to the head. Once I get there I remember to make eye contact. It is powerful and erotic to gaze into those boiling gray eyes as I perform this intimate act. My tongue explores the ridge where the head meets the shaft. Knowledge is power and my studies have told me to pay particular attention to the loose patch of skin on the underside of the penis where the head meets the shaft, that most men find this an intensely sensitive area. I run my tongue along it, first gently, then a little harder. Kiss it, suck at it. Gauge his response. Christian looks like he is on the verge of a heart attack. His hands have clenched into the mattress forming hard balls and the muscles up his arms are laced tightly with veins popping. His chest is heaving, shoulders braced as if he's holding some weight. His neck is straining and the cords are carved plainly against his ruddy skin. I'm proud of how his face expresses sheer pleasure and awesome restraint.

And the fire alarm goes off.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

**Christian's Point of View**

I am going to tie Anastasia to this bed and fuck her into the next Universe.

Right after I shoot the largest load I have ever had out the back of her head.

**Taylor's Point of View**

Alarm! Fire Alarm! Shit!

I put down my fork somewhere between the guest cottage and the main house. Possibilities, probabilities, options and choices run neatly down my mental computer as I see the smoke and open flames pouring out the kitchen window. The fucking stove, the whole house, is gas lined and sure as hell the moment I get near the house it explodes. I hit the ground in response, feel the heat rush over me as well as the sound waves. Then shit starts raining down on me. Us. My team is also on the ground.

As one we rise and circle the burning house, looking for entrance and hopefully Grey and Ana. I've already spotted Sawyer coming around from the front, so no one else was in the house. And I know why Sawyer was out front, same reason I had gone to the guest house to eat that fucking fantastic casserole Ana made – Grey was making so damn much noise upstairs that there wasn't a doubt in anyone's mind what was happening. None of us felt the need to listen to the bastard getting lucky.

The house is going up fast and there's no sign of Grey or Ana. I draw up the memory of the house and decide to go in the front and take the staircase that is immediately to the right. If that is blocked then I will go to the left, around the parlor and to a back stairwell that leads to the second and third bedrooms. I know that Sawyer will be right behind me because Ana is his target just as Grey is mine. Cottee shoves two wet towels at us and we tie them behind our heads. Then we prepare to charge for the front door.

**Ana's Point of View**

OMG! Christian throws me off the bed and charges to the door. Doesn't he know anything? Before I can scream at him DON'T OPEN THE DOOR, he opens the door. My Conscience is holding up a DUNCE cap, but I don't have time to be amused. I hit the floor as a boiling mass of smoke pours into the room and seeks the open patio doors to escape. It's like a locomotive on a train track. Why am I so focused on trains right now? I crawl over to the idiot who is now crouched in the open doorway, get both hands curled around one of his ankles and I pull with all my might.

He doesn't budge.

Fucking workout – aholic. "Get the door closed, Christian!" I manage not to call him any names because despite it all, Ray raised a lady. And someone who knows better than to open a door when a fire alarm goes off before checking to see if the door and doorknob are hot, as well as to close said door before there's a flashpoint and I get everyone roasted. Fucking A! He duck walks back and slams the door.

I scramble to the floor beside the king size bed and lying on my back, watching the smoke racing out the patio doors, then glancing under the door to the room where smoke is curling, I manage to pull on my shorts and t-shirt – no time for underwear, and yell at Christian to put his pajama pants on. He snatches them from me. While he's dancing around- get this – trying to raise Taylor on his cellphone – and pulling on something to cover himself, I am tearing the luxurious thick sheets up and tying them together. Christian has mentioned that he sails, has a boat or six, so he probably could tie better knots … too bad he's having some kind of male machismo moment. He's moved to the bathroom and I can hear the water running there. Just as I finish with what has to be more than enough sheet rope to get down from the balcony to the ground, he comes out and smothers me with - Jesus Christ Son of Mary! - soaking wet cold towels.

He scoops me up and REOPENS THE GODDAMN FUCKING DOOR THAT COULD HAVE A WALL OF FIRE BEHIND IT!

That's it. When he has to stagger back because the wall of heat and black smoke pushes at us – and might I point out that being in front of Christian in his arms means I got the brunt of his brilliance – I kick it closed with my feet. My poor bruised feet! Christian is being so cool, calm, level-headed, collected … you know, screaming and swearing and now putting me down on the bed and trying to call Taylor again. Other than that, there is the sound of flames and things bursting, like milk jugs exploding from a distance. I wrestle myself free of the frigging cold wet towels and grab up my makeshift rope. A dash to the patio and I start tying one end to the balcony balustrade, using my simple square knot and hoping this thing will hold. Realistically I gotta figure Christian can jump down – we're like twenty feet up. But I am not graceful and will likely break my neck if I try that. Let's see either one of us get sex if I'm in the same halo cast as the man who tried to murder me in Christian's SUV.

I toss the rope over the side, then get the start of my life as it yanks down hard, catching my ankle between the rope and the metal balcony bar. It only takes Sawyer (who's got something wrapped around his mouth and nose) a short time to crawl up and hurtle over the balcony railing, but my ankle thinks it's a good ten hours. I hope to hell it's only bruised. He snatches me up over his shoulder, starts a yelling match with Christian, and then simply puts his long legs over the side and jumps down with me. I see Taylor's half-covered face as we go down. I am just getting my breath back and my senses together when Taylor and Christian land and run to where myself, Sawyer, Cottie, Bron, Katts, Peach and several other men are gathered on the sand and grassy area that splits from the beach toward the driveway. The sound of sirens is filling the air.

Christian grabs me and holds me tight in his arms. I'm bruised for sure.

**Christian's Point of View**

"&^%$%^&OIU&$%^&*&^%$%^!"

Thank God Anastasia's alive! When she was fighting me as I was trying to save us I wanted to scream. But I kept my cool. Once it was obvious we couldn't get safely out of the house from the second floor, I turned to the options we had in the room. Windows and patio. Help arrived and I had Sawyer take my heart over the balcony, grabbed my laptop and both our cellphones, her soft briefcase and my briefcase, then followed over the edge as Taylor came up the rope. Where the hell that piece of shit rope came from, I have no idea. But she's safe and alive, if a bit wet and bedraggled. Fuck! I just remembered what this soaking wet goddess was doing to me before the fire. I gotta find another place for us to stay – right now. Then I'm fucking her sweet pussy like there's no tomorrow. The dry spell is over! She's gonna come like a Comanche and forget there is another man on the face of this earth. No sightseeing, no bicycle rides and snorkeling. I, Christian Grey, Master of the Universe; I am going to seal the deal with this beautiful woman by making love to her for the next 24 hours, then when she is too satiated and weak to think straight, I am putting my ring on her finger and insisting we go to the Seattle Court House on Monday and get married.

**Ana's Point of View**

Fire trucks pull up.

Apparently sea otters have their nests on dry land. Not too far from the water. Safe enough in the area around the driveway here at this lovely beach house. Or so they thought.

One of the huge trucks simply runs over the nest as it is cushioned between some long grasses and shrubs. Crushed in Christian's arms, I just happen to be looking in the right direction to see the little things … well, they're dead. My Inner Goddess who is still dressed in a lovely see-thru jade green dress with panels of gauzy satin which shows everything, faints dead away. My Conscience who was wearing a sensible see-thru jade green teddy that shows everything, takes one more look and starts throwing up violently into the notebook we all had been using to help us perform the _Blowjob of the Century_ just a few minutes ago. My Sub-Conscience, wearing a rain coat under which she is nude, looks over the entire mess. Then her eyes, the same cerulean blue as mine, sad and sensible, simply announces,_ "Look, honey, I get it. He beats us, humiliates us, and makes us feel like shit. There are literally one hundred thousand women in this State that would be willing to let him do that to them on a daily basis, for the price of a car, clothes, jewelry, maybe a condo or vacation home. But that's not you – you were pure as the driven snow. Not that he valued that any. So you decide all that must mean you're supposed to be the one to change him from the dark to the light. Well, I got news for you, girlfriend. Fate is speaking. A car accident, a fire, the death of innocents. You, Ana Steele, are not meant to be with this god."_

So when Taylor finally pries Christian off of me to deal with the fire department, the police, the news channels and paparazzi which arrive in droves by land, sea, and air – can you believe this shit? I mean, the man puts his shoes on one at the time, same as the rest of the world. And he's not the richest man in the US of A. Only the fourth richest. And I got a flash for 'em – he ain't the perfect male beauty they all think – he's got to shave the hair off his toe knuckles; Christian shared that during one of our couch talks over the past three weeks. Anyway, once I'm free and Cottie's put me into a pair of her sweatpants and a t-shirt, I tell Sawyer to make arrangements for me to get home. He nods his head and talks into his watch.

I don't know where Christian is at when I am escorted to a small helicopter, only room enough for Katt who takes over the controls, myself and Luke Sawyer crawls into the back, which there isn't room as its not meant for a third person, so he and I switch out and I manage to get myself settled sans any kind of belt into the back between the two seats. But we take off and I look down at the still burning bed and breakfast, the mass of people and machines, the sea water shooting from fire truck hoses at the mess. Look, it's my life with the possibility of Christian Grey: bruises and dead baby otters.

I don't think so.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

I cannot believe I was the cause of those poor otters deaths. I am inconsolable, despite Taylor and Christian assuring me that the fire had nothing to do with me making breakfast, using the oven. They say it had to do with the cracked gas lines and earthquakes and several other things. But how can I believe them? They'd both lie to me in a heartbeat – I'm not a complete idiot. I don't know how to run from the pain so I sit in my room on the floor, arms wrapping my knees and rocking while I cry. Christian's response to this in the first half hour after he arrived was to tell me to stop being dramatic, to grow up, toughen up, and quit being a baby. Then he asked if we could continue where we left off before the fire. I think it was Sawyer and Ryan who threw him out for me. But I'm pretty sure Taylor helped.

There's only one person who grasps my pain. I call him. My Dad has suffered through animal injury and death with me for as long as I can remember. He understands my horror and wisely lets go (_At least for now_, my Conscience says pointedly.) the fact that I was away with Christian, and soothes my injured soul with a few quiet words of love and understanding. And it does help.

Needless to say, when Kate arrives back at our apartment, stopping in to get a change of clothes as she was planning to spend the night with Elliot again, she's stunned to find me home. Her clue was Sawyer and Ryan sitting in the living room, I guess. She knows me and also knows that I will spiral into depression over what has happened. Kate to the rescue … it's a perfect summer day and the beach calls us – along with a lot of alcohol and bratwurst and marshmallows over a driftwood fire. She calls Elliot who suggests the Alki Beach. Kate, ever the organizer and popular social creature, sends out a few texts and reports the party is on. Sawyer scrambles to get security in place, I find out later, but never said a negative word to her as I was such a mess and he didn't know if anything less than sun and sand and seagulls would make me stop crying. (That and the happy smokes Kate didn't think he saw her packing up.)

Still bawling and squalling quietly, I watch as she packs up bags and boxes, makes Sawyer and Ryan carry them out to a gigantic truck that Elliot pulls up in, then Elliot carries me out and dumps me in the back seat of the cab. Now I know he and Christian are related, they're both overbearing over-muscled pretty boys who don't know when to keep their hands to themselves. I just hate to think what it must have been like in their house growing up that they got to be this way. Carrick must have been a monster to Grace right in front of them.

Still … the Super Friends have all responded and I can get an update on what happened with Bitch Troll.

Oh God, those poor otters …!

**Grace's Point of View**

I am in the middle of a Medical Records Meeting when I get a page from Elliot. Normally I only respond to anything that involves a patient in the ER who requires my specialty of pediatrics or one of my own patients in the Pediatrics Unit who has gone into crisis. It is unprofessional and discourteous to use a cellphone in a meeting, even outrageously boring and useless ones like this, much less texting. I set an example for the young people here at the University of Washington Medical Center - both degreed and otherwise, from how to dress appropriately to such obvious functions as meeting etiquette.

Elliot has texted me that his Kate just found Anastasia at home crying and Christian isn't in sight. He's assured me that he and Kate will take care of that outstanding young woman, but he's leaving his little "fuckhead bro" to me.

First, I don't approve of the "fuckhead bro" designation. But given the circumstances as I have no doubt that Kate – who is quite the Type A personality – is snarling and snapping, I have no doubt my Elliot is stressed. So I will forgive him this time. But I will also have Carrick let him know this is not an appropriate manner of communication from son to mother. My husband is so good with our children.

I do, though, consider this an emergency. I excuse myself to the moderator of the meeting, then the other attendees, take my briefcase and leave. As soon as I am out in the town car and my driver is heading for the nearest Starbucks for my triple shot mocha latte extra dark, I call Christian. It rings four times and I hope this is because he is on the other line making up with Anastasia. If he is ignoring my call I will rain down on his ass like shit on green grass.

Luckily for my middle child, he answers on the fifth ring. "Mom?"

Oh, I love that word. Mom. He tried to call me "Grace" when he was fifteen – that stopped after the second time, believe you me. He has spent the last half dozen years trying to ignore his family's very existence due to his emotional problems. But one night with Anastasia and I had my son back. Or maybe it was for the very first time.

You could have amputated one of my limbs without anesthesia when I went to his penthouse to check on him – always an irritant but a mother must check on her children whether they want me there or not – and out from his bedroom comes this lovely brunette with big blue eyes, an adorable svelte figure, and Christian all but does backflips around her as he introduces her, pretending to be all cool and collected. Anastasia Steele. She looked petrified of meeting his mother, but Christian was beside himself obviously wanting me to like her.

The last time he'd acted anything remotely like that was when he wanted to hold Mia after I brought her home from the hospital. I honestly think he was afraid that we'd take her back or something. But he clicked when he saw his little sister … and he obviously clicked when he saw Ana.

Now, I put on my disapproving voice. "Why did Elliot just tell me Ana is in her apartment crying? I thought the two of you were going away for the weekend?" I spoke briefly to him on Friday evening after two dozen people informed me of the car accident and I saw the incident on the TV news. Carrick was behind on the news, as was Mia and Elliot. They all three called me as soon as they heard; then half a hundred other 'close' family and friends called me as soon as they also found out. But I spoke with him, was reassured by Christian that he and Ana were both fine and were going to proceed with their romantic weekend.

Christian explained everything that had happened. I am an organized physician. That is what I consider myself. Doctor first. Woman second. There are, of course, times of exception. I finished my jumbo latte and am almost home when he finishes by explaining how he can't understand why Anastasia is so upset about some mongrel otters and his wanting to continue their weekend (like I didn't guess what my son had actually asked that poor girl to continue with) that he ended up removed from her apartment. I wait for him to get in an outraged breath, and then begin laying the groundwork for trying, yet again in my endless battle to make my second child have some grain of empathy for another human being, to make him see that he has fucked up a good thing once again. Just like all those excellent private schools we sent him to as a child. "Christian. Darling boy. You did get that list I sent you about romantic getaway ideas?"

"Sure, Mom. Thank you."

"Yet you chose a local Bed & Breakfast a half hour by public ferry away from home?"

"Well. Yeah. But I don't think Anastasia's got a Passport." That's his lame excuse.

"You didn't ask. And might I remind you that Canada, with its need for a Passport these days, is only a few hours away; so it's not impossible she has one."

"I didn't think about that," my genius son admits.

"So let me clarify. After she was in this terrible car accident which required the Jaws of Life to extricate her from, you then took Anastasia – _without full medical evaluation_ – to this place that cost less than the shoes you wore to work?" I am going to have Carrick call him as soon as I am done. I understand that this is Christian's first attempts at romance, but he is obviously a little "special needs" when it comes to what to do here. I can't afford Anastasia Steele disappearing from my precious boy's life because he's too stupid to know how to perform surgery … so to speak.

"Mom, she said she loved the place. I've already made arrangements to buy it from the owners. I'll have Elliot build a new place for us."

He was whining. I hate when my children whine. It is unbecoming and demeaning to both themselves and whoever they are in conversation. "And then you dismissed the staff from this facility?"

"Well. Yes. I wanted time alone with Anastasia."

"And she made supper. For you both and your security team?" I get out of the town car as the driver opens the back door. Our housekeeper opens the front door and I hand her the empty coffee container and my briefcase goes to the butler, Scottsdale. It is pleasant out so I head for the pool house to change into a swimsuit. I can work on my light tan whilst trying to educate my son. Boy is it obvious he dropped out of university.

"It was delicious, Mom. She can really cook," Christian offers enthusiastically.

Just what any mother of a billionaire wants to hear. His future wife can cook. There's a skill she'll need when it comes time to have the President of the United States for dinner. Maybe he expects her to clean their house as well? Oh no! "Christian, exactly who did you expect to make the bed this morning?"

There's silence as he thinks about this. Through my cellphone I can hear the shoe drop for him. If Carrick had expected me to make the bed, or cook meals, when he was trying to convince me he was worthy of me … well, maybe I'd be married to Donald Trump now. I understand he's on his fourth wife or so. That wouldn't have happened if I'd said yes to him, believe you me.

But I'm digressing. My son the idiot still hasn't quite gotten the entire picture. I summarize before hitting the last point home. "So after nearly getting her killed, taking her sans doctoral level medical treatment to a local B&B – which was unsound enough in structure that it blew up, expecting her to cook and keep house for you and your behemoth staff, when she gets upset at her second near death experience in less than 24 hours and returns home … don't interrupt me, young man!" I heard him drawing in breath to get a word in.

"Sorry, Mom," he mumbles.

I am so having his father talk with Christian. "You follow her back to her home and demand sex?" And I am not stupid. I can just about guess what act Christian expected Ana to perform – same as every other man in a hot bother.

"I didn't say that," he whines, sounding embarrassed, pissed off, and – _finally!_ – guilty.

"Christian, you didn't have to. What kind of gifts did you give her before the house exploded?"

Silence.

"All right. You didn't have time for that. But surely you gave her something after you arrived at her apartment."

Silence.

"Christian. You are a billionaire. Are you telling me you treated Anastasia like a cheap street hooker?" I have treated young people in the ER that have claimed something akin to that description. I doubt Christian has ever come in contact with such. But I am guessing he will get my drift.

More silence.

"Christian, you, Elliot and Mia never once saw your father come home on a Friday evening with anything less than flowers and a jewelry case for me. Never." The few times he forgot in the early years of our marriage I left him and went to Europe – I was less professionally responsible in those days. "Did you have flowers at the vacation house for her, or did you expect her to pick her own from this vegetable and herb garden where she had to get dirt under her fingernails to pick out the ingredients to make you food?" I'll bet Ana did put together a nice display for the dinner table – both Christian and hers, and the help. You can tell just from a few minutes with her that she is a young lady who strives to make a good presentation no matter what.

"N-no."

I sigh. Sheryl brings me a mint julep. I sip it, waiting. After a few minutes of silence, I tell him the same thing I told Carrick when he failed to treat me as the princess my parents raised. "I expect Anastasia would have been treated better by one of your mailroom boys who make minimum wage. Goodbye, Christian." And I push the End button.

Carrick arrives from his golf game with a pair of tickets for the Symphony tonight – a lovely surprise and very good reason to get out of attending Diana Gurshain's party tonight. I tell him about Christian's transgressions and he calls the boy and tells him to come over to the house immediately for a talk. I know Carrick will explain to Christian both how to treat his mother and his Anastasia.

**Carrick's Point of View**

My second son is a fuck up from the start. All right, that's harsh. But it's true. He had a bad start in life, terrible, but he also was given every chance to overcome that beginning from the moment Grace picked him up and brought him home. I had to move heaven and earth to get him adopted, and believe me to get it done in a few months instead of a year took a lot of effort. But there is no extent or extreme that I will not go to for my Grace. Of course I fell in love with the boy, who wouldn't?, but that still doesn't mean he wasn't a fuck up. My point is, we gave him an advantaged life that less than 1 percent of the population in the USofA has ever dreamed of experiencing. And in return he has done nothing but embarrass and humiliate and irritate and infuriate both Grace and myself.

I wasn't disturbed overly by Christian's distance since he abruptly dropped out of Harvard. Never mind that I had to pay a fortune to get him in. His grades may have improved his last two years of preparatory school, but Harvard wasn't the type to let someone in with his juvenile delinquent history … unless I paid for a fucking new basketball court and ten lifetime scholarships. So what does the little son of a bitch do? He drops out. Terrific. Grace had hysterics and I had to pass some important work off to my partners to take her on an Alaskan cruise until the crisis passed.

I'm proud of his business that he's developed since then. He does a good bit of charity and philanthropic work, but I also have seen firsthand how he treats his employees. Nothing to be impressed with there. He certainly didn't get his overbearing, priggish, insulting, cold and bastardly attitude from Grace or me. Still, at least he's stuck with it and made something of himself. Didn't think he had it in him.

So things were going along just fine these last few years. Christian and I had lunch at my club once a month, he had lunch with Grace's father once a month, lunch with Elliot once a month, and Mia the last. Then he came to dinner at the house with the family once a month. Grace went to check on him and typically had breakfast with him twice a month, whatever days she could manage with her beastly schedule. He came to the evening functions I informed him he must attend, stayed for as little amount of time as possibly, typically less than half an hour, and that was it. I'll say one thing, we hadn't had any knock down drag out fights like in the old days before he finally got independent.

Then Grace comes home and says he's met a girl. Shocked the piss out of me. I thought the boy was firmly homosexual. Guess he swings both sides. I met her briefly here at the house, then he managed to fuck it up, so I never thought much about it further. Well, until Elliot let me know on the QT that he was trying to make back up with her. I just took it for the ten cents it was worth and kept on walking.

And now he's fucked up yet again, same girl, and Grace is in a tizzy. Thank Christ I had those symphony tickets for tonight. Grace upset without something to focus away from the issue is not a pleasant situation. First off, she cries. My beautiful Grace crying nearly breaks my heart. Then she pouts. At that point I feel my balls swell, tighten and lift and I want her. But I'm not getting shit until she's at least halfway happy again. The woman screws like a power drill and I am one happy husband because of it. So my job in this life is to make her happy – at least enough so I can do all the things to her my golf partners are busy doing with their mistresses. Thank Sweet Jesus that she does yoga because otherwise some of these young ladies Chuck, Daniel and Sebastian are doing would be able to out-flex her and then I'd no longer have bragging rights.

So here he sits in my study. He's a good looking boy, that red hair and grey eyes, good bone structure, tall, keeps himself fit from what Elliot says, and certainly maintains excellent hygiene and grooming. But he's cold. Deep down inside he's just a scared kid, abused and ready to strike out at anyone or anything that could try to hurt him again. Sympathy? Not from me. I paid for the best, and I mean very best, psychologists and psychiatrists in this country and Canada. I think there were a few from Mexico I flew in as well. After the tenth one, who's counting? Grace and I gave him every advantage. Yet here he sits, too stupid to know how to hook a poor girl.

I point to where I have a laptop set up and he dutifully moves to it. He looks depressed and a little shaken. Good. Whatever Grace told him may have sunk in. Still, I have to take some responsibility here and mend some bridges. I took the boy on as my child, learned to love him and still do today – because the heart is determined to have what it wants – and if there's a possibility of grandchildren in this I'm willing to go all out. Anastasia isn't one of those tall leggy supermodels, so I'm guessing she'll breed like a mother hen. So I start out, "Christian, I consider this trouble you're in to be my fault." He gapes at me. Good. Little prick made me look like that when he scrambled the face of the preacher's son when he was eight goddamn years old. "I never took the time to sit down with you and explain how to treat someone you love. And now your mother tells me you're in this mess and need some help."

He nods, that miserable look back. The boy made that little girl cook for him and his security detail. What a fuck up. Grace plays in the kitchen twice a year and it's always carefully rehearsed and practiced. Believe me, I've eaten everything she's ever tried to pass a hand over – burnt, ruined, tasteless or so spiced you need medical intervention afterwards – she's fucking hot in bed and that's why I married her. Not so I could ask her to make me a snack at two in the morning or impress the partners at the office with Beef Wellington or Baked Alaska.

"You think holding onto a woman with beauty, brains and smoldering sensuality is easy? Well, I guess you're finding out its not. So start typing. Then memorize what I'm telling you. Its how I managed to get and hold onto your mother." I sit down, light up a cigar Grace pretends she doesn't know I have on occasion. I figure I've got an hour to spare on Christian, then I need to get ready for the symphony. Grace will be satisfied with my efforts here and I'll probably get a blowjob in the drive to the theatre. A few drinks in her after a late dinner at the best restaurant in town, those ruby earrings I've got in the safe just waiting for a special occasion or crisis like today, and I'll have my hard cock in her sweet ass before the sun rises tomorrow morning. Jesus, I'm getting hot and hard just thinking of it! I blow out a breath, focus, and start with the 'How To' guide my fuck up of a second son can't seem to look up online and follow.

**THE LAWS OF KEEPING A WOMAN**

1) **Never take a woman for granted or neglect her. **The moment you do, she'll start scanning the field and you won't know it.

2) Do not cheat on her, or cheat her. A woman's revenge could be emotionally lethal.

3) Do not boss her around, push her to do anything she doesn't want to do, or force her to give you ANYTHING.

4) Do not expect her to wait on you hand and foot. She will take your foot and put it in your hand.

5) Be appreciative for all she does for you and show her appreciation for being in YOUR life. When you start acting like she should be happy she is in YOUR life, she will go out to prove you otherwise.

6) Never lay a hand on her, unless it is to caress her.

7) **Never make her second to anything.** This is the biggest mistake any man can do.

8) Don't ever disrespect her or her family, even if she complains about them. It is OK for her to do it, but never for you. Remember this.

9) Always GIVE more than you take from her to stay a man in her eyes. When a woman has to support you, in her mind, you are her bitch.

10) Never treat a woman like a man, or she will treat you like a woman.

11) Be truthful to her always — even if it hurts. A woman respects a man of Truth and men that lie repeatedly will never be taken seriously — only playfully.

12) Women are like cats. Even when they play stupid, their radars are always perceptive and receptive to all that is happening around them. Do not play around your woman, or she will play you in the end.

13) Never be afraid to show a woman your emotions. Do not expect her to know how you feel if you don't reveal anything. Never hold back on love. When a woman feels something is missing, or that you are not in the relationship 100%, she will seek a more complete love elsewhere. Believe it.

14) Support your woman's dreams as if you were her number one fan and you will always be her number one man.

15) Push a woman to fulfill her passions, and she will always be passionate about you. Stay in tune with the developments of her hobbies and projects, and she will be in tune with you. Even if she loves designing tiny hats for squirrels, what you should love is the excitement from her eyes whenever you see her doing what she loves.

16) Treat your woman as if she were your precious daughter, more than you treat her as your mother — even if she is older than you. Women are like kittens. They love your attention, affection, pampering, to be spoiled, and really enjoy being showed and told new things. Remember, women will always have more options than men. They will only stay with the one who treats them best.

17) A woman typically gives a man two chances for serious error. If he messes up more than twice, it is highly unlikely there will be a third. After the second slip-up, she already sees you as a different person.

18) Always trust a woman's intuition and never take her mind for that of a fool. If she tells you something, but then you have to go and ask for someone else's opinion in front of her, if she was right she will never let it go. She will start taking you for the idiot. All it takes is once.

19) The same way the Sun is the lamp of the universe, your woman should always be treated as the lamp of your life.

20) Do not ever put her down in front of your friends or family. This will only make her despise your family and friends, and she won't forget to return the favor.

21) If she loves her family, try to love them as if they were yours too. She will love you more for sincerely trying.

22) If you end up with a first-rate woman, never treat her less than first-rate. She will leave you for a first-rate man once you do.

23) Never give your woman third-rate gifts (junk, used, discounted, as is, tacky). If you can't afford to get her something first-rate, make her something from your heart, or wait until you have enough money to get her a first-rate gift. A woman would rather be given nice gifts, rather than a bunch of junky gifts. It shows her how you see her. Believe it.

24) Never let your woman stand alone when she is being opposed. Always stand by her in the presence of opposition, and when you are in private _then_ you can tell her your real thoughts on a situation. She will love you for not exposing her out in the open. Always stand by your woman. Always! However, if she is someone who always does people wrong, then she is wrong for you. If she is good and she is the one being wronged, if you sit down or do nothing, she will be gone. Women do not like weak men. Those women that tolerate weak men are very weak women.

Treat your relationship as if you are growing the most beautiful sacred flower. Keep watering it, tend to the roots, and always make sure the petals are full of color and are never curling. Once you neglect your plant, it will die, as will your relationship. If your woman has left you heartbroken, then know it is most likely due to you violating at least one of the above. If you violated more than two, then know you had a very good woman. (By Suzy Kassem)

I check my watch. Wish my son good luck. He gets the hint he needs to leave, stands and shakes my hand. It's a good firm shake and I nod approvingly, give him a steady look. "Your mother and I wouldn't mind some grandchildren," I tell him. In other words, It's_ the oldest trick in the book, boy. Get her pregnant then slip the ring on. _

"I'm trying, Dad."

E gads. He hasn't called me that in such a normal way in ten years. Maybe he is in love.

But he's still a fuck up.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

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Alki Beach is absolutely lovely on a mid-summer Saturday afternoon. There are plenty of people out to enjoy a picture perfect summer day, on the long beach strip that runs from Alki Point to Duwamish Head on Elliott Bay. As soon as I hear that last part, I know why Kate's Elliot chose it. She does too and we both roll our eyes. But honestly it's a great spot for a 2.5 mile walk with joggers, people on rollerblades, volleyball players, beachcombers, sunbathers, bicyclists and strollers out to enjoy the sun. There are picnic tables, a bathhouse housing an art studio, and a restroom at the south end of the beach. We grab some tables and move them onto the beach near a trio of fire pits. Well, I start to grab a table end, trip over my own two feet and go down butt first on the sand. While I'm going down my swinging arm catches a hold of Kate's Valentino beach hand bag, which she has over one shoulder. That pulls her off balance and she windmills to try and stay afloat. One of her hands gets in a good hard hit on Ryan's neck, causing Kate to screech about a possible broken nail as she comes down on top of me. Ryan pulled back automatically and bumped into Elliot who was rounding the table to try and prevent the disaster and I think he stepped on Elliot's foot as well, cause when I got around to looking up poor Elliot was jumping up and down holding his right foot in both hands.

Sawyer tossed Kate up off me and Elliot let go of his foot long enough to catch my BFF – kissing ensues there. Then he carefully set me back on my feet and told me to "Just stand still, Ana. Please." Then he and the other guys all carried the tables down. By the time Kate and I got the food and drink she'd packed up unloaded, people were beginning to arrive. Ethan pulled up in a new Maserati GranCabrio MC that his dad got him … I guess yesterday? I'm not sure, but it's silver and shows off Morgan quite nicely. Maybe these two are going to work out … And soon Allison and Sharlie arrive with more people and our afternoon is off to a great start.

The water temperature ranges from isn't quite 60 degrees Fahrenheit, but most of us have lived in Washington long enough to acclimate, so swim suits are on and water games keep us all warm anyway. I have spent the time since I met Christian being much too solemn. The whole point of buckling down all my life was to get to the point that I would be secure enough in my adult life to actually have fun. So dammit, I am! I have a good paying job, sane and adventurous friends, and my health. So I killed a few otters … it was an accident and if I try really hard I will be able to forget at least on some level about those cute fury faces with the big dark eyes and whiskers that twitch and tickle … I take the beer Elliot hands me and gulp it down.

By sundown we have three wonderful beach fires going and I swear there are at least one hundred people who are claiming us as the hosts. Sawyer had to call in extra security as there are – I am not kidding – over like thirty paparazzi standing around taking pics and vids of us. Well, I guess me. And Elliot and Kate, and Ethan. Elliot has quite a few dollar signs after his name, although I'm not sure if its as many as Kate and Ethan's Dad. But he's rich enough that I guess society pages, trash mags and television shows want to know what he's got going on. That and the dude is hot. Way to go, Kate!

With the darkness I get a chance to sit in front of the water and find out what everyone knows of Elena. It's actually the first time the four of us have had a chance to really talk about the entire war I've declared. All of Christian's body guards are spread between the beach's parking area and down to the water. My last line of defense is Cottie and I swear that she could fight off Arnold Schwarzenegger back in his buff and tuff days. She's ten yards away and the noise of the beach party and the water is enough that the four of us sitting on the sand can't be clearly overheard. So the four of us sit criss-cross applesauce facing together and Kate is too busy drunkenly playing volleyball with lots of other people to notice and be jealous … and we get down to business.

**Elena's Point of View (sort of a little flashback)**

I am getting ready to head for home. It's Friday and been a fucking long week. Isaac is all well and good, but I've got me a new teenage boy from the local juvie rehab center – Seattle's one do-gooder fucking town – who has an interest in post-modern art. I've got a houseful of post-modern art, so of course once I checked out his dynamic ass, abs and arms, not to mention I could look at that sweet fourteen year old face for hours, I suggest I do some volunteer work "guiding the poor boy toward perhaps a career in the field". That's what I told his probation officer and the house mother of the rehab center. Stupid asses! What he's going to get is an education in how to say 'Yes, Mistress' when I ask if he wants his cock stroked by my velvet soft hand.

So I'm packing up my Scully Leather briefcase when in comes two men in ten thousand dollar suits. I recognize the cut and make, of course, from across the salon floor. So stride out to see what is going on. Trust me, it's not the Health Department; they don't dress like this.

Guy #1 in the blue pin stripe with matching Dolce & Gabbana tie looks me up and down. He's got that _she's one hot bitch_ look in his eyes – thank you very much – as he steps forward. "Mrs. Elena Lincoln?"

I offer him my hand. "It's Mizz," I emphasize. I look expectantly for him to give me his name. He's much too old for me, at least thirty, and the only male I'll even contemplate doing over twenty-five is Christian. Isaac's getting up there and he'll soon be riding a new candy cane once he's aged out for me.

"My name is Paulo Dorian, and this is Maxwell St. John. We're with First Samson Bank."

My bank. Well, one of them. I've triple mortgaged the Esclava chain, all co-signed with Christian. The monies from the first two mortgages are firmly in Swiss and off-shore bank accounts. No one is leaving this woman poor. I'm prepared up and out the ass for a rainy day. "And how can I help you today, Mr. Dorian, Mr. St. John?" If they want some freebies, I can slide them in – or if it's for their girlfriends or wives … or maybe they're both new to the BDSM scene here in Seattle and have been referred to me. From head to toe they are both screaming money, so it could be the latter.

Dorian gets right to the point. He holds out a long yellow envelope to me. "Miz. Lincoln, First Samson Bank is calling your loan due for the Esclava Corporation. The total due is thirty-five million dollars, due in full Monday or we'll need to foreclose the beginning of business on Tuesday."

For a minute I don't hear him. I can't hear him. Here this stupid mother fucker is standing a few yards away from my office, in front of staff and customers who are listening as hard as they can, trying to ruin my life. The unprofessionalism is staggering. The words he is saying are staggering. In fact, I'm staggering. Butler, one of my outrageously gay hairstylists rushes over and helps me back to my office, yelling for someone to get me a iced lemon and java infused water with a shot of gin. It's the current 'in' drink and I bill my exclusive customers who sip the cold concoctions five hundred dollars a crystal flute. Still, they pack a restorative punch and I need it.

Butler helps me into my desk chair and the two men follow along. Dorian places the yellow envelop with what are doubtless the bank papers on my desk and folds his hands together in front of his cock. I was going to offer him Celia to suck on that cock – a little treat reserved for my VIPs – but that plan's gone. Long, long gone. St. John still hasn't said a word and I finally catch a bulge under his suit coat and realize he's hired help – no doubt to protect Paulo Dorian from being hit on when he delivers his bad news to innocent business owners. Like me. After I get down my water, I start asking questions: Why, How, When, Why again, Who, What, Why again, and finally I just take his business card and let him go. He doesn't have the power to change what's happened, he's just a fancied up delivery boy.

I put in a call to the President of the Women's Business Association and find out that the President of First Samson Bank is Louis Goldstein. Banks are so busy overturning each other that I don't pay attention to who owns and who operates which and what. Unless it's someone I'm working with through my private enterprise of training and supplying Submissives, it's not worth my time. But now I have to contact Louis Goldstein and he's already left for the day. His secretary isn't giving out any more information than that and isn't going to contact him to contact me. Some bitches are gold, others have titanium balls. She's the latter. So I take the appointment at 10am on Monday. Then I call Christian.

~~XOXO~~

I leaned back, hands in the sand, eyes on the water as the last of the sun dipped into the water. It had been a success. Even if Christian bailed out the Troll Bitch, she'd managed a very good kick. It didn't begin to even out the mental, very painful and shatteringly agonizing, picture I have of myself blindfolded, tied up in multiple ways, peeing myself, on Christian, and on that giant bed. Bad enough his juices and every woman – had there ever been men for little orgy parties as well? – he'd ever had on there had left their stains, but I had left a permanent mark. Had the smell of urine left the room? Or had he needed to have a professional cleaning service come in? Gail Jones probably hated me for that mess. Hating and disgusted.

Who wouldn't be?

"Ana?" Sharlie waved a hand in front of her eyes. "Ana?"

I pull myself back to the present, nauseous. Controlling it, I look at the Super Friends. Fuck the NDA. Fuck Christian for getting my hopes up for a romantic weekend filled with romance, massages, satin bed sheets, caviar and champagne. And fuck me for holding that baby otter and then seeing it get killed.

Allison charges up the sand and comes back with four icy cold and wet bottles of beer. Cottie takes mine away, examines it briefly, then opens the screw top before handing it back and wanders away. Just far enough that I don't have to worry she's overhearing all. We tap the long necks in a toast and all four of us chug. Then I look around. "Any of you ever been to a BDSM club or got kinky in the sack?" My face is fifty shades of red, but I don't give a shit. They deserve to know why I'm hell bent on fucking over Elena Lincoln.

Now here's a kicker … they all have. Was I the only person on the face of the universe who hadn't known about this shit? Well, maybe some part of me had known about the tie me up games – I do read after all – and the Marquis de Sade wasn't exactly a banned book any more … but my three friends have all been inside actual clubs. Morgan blushingly shares he likes a little kink, but doesn't share more. Allison says she had a boyfriend who ball gagged her and tied her up all the time – she's giggling madly. Sharlie, with her smooth southern accent, says she might have had an experience where she was a buffet for a bunch of people she didn't know – twice! – because sometimes a girl just has to pay the bills.

Well. I'll. Be. Damned.

Here's the difference between me and Paranoid Christian. I'm not worried these people will turn on me and tell some gossip show all they know. And even if they did? I don't think that his business will collapse or he and his family will die of embarrassment. It's sex. Weird sex that can result in an ass so black and blue that you have to get pain medication prescribed, but sex sells, baby! "Christian was beyond pissed about the picture we sold, asked a Domme friend of his how to punish me, and wound up tying me up and making me pee myself." It comes out in a rush.

They stare at me. I make eye contact with each one.

Morgan, the genius Senior Assistant, reaches out and takes my hand. "And Elena Lincoln is the Domme?"

I nod.

Allison takes my other hand. "Are you sure we shouldn't be having an operation for him, too?"

I nod again. Isn't that the point of why I initiated our little Operation Get Bitch Troll? That way the fault in my mind lies with the mastermind, not the actual bully. How sick am I? I still want Christian Grey to be somehow innocent, acceptable. I am so in love with this monster that I will blame everyone else for his actions. I've even been blaming myself for asking him to "show me", when any sane person would know that even if he smacked me with a belt, it had gone way beyond "show me" status and into whatever fucked up sadism he was into.

"Ok, then." Sharlie takes my foot. Shakes. It makes me smile. Then we all finish off our beers. "So you mentioned in one of your notes that they meet for lunch every Thursday. That's our next score. We need to know what they're talking about. That'll give us some idea of what the bitch considers important. And we can plan from there."

They immediately begin to discuss ideas, resources, and practicalities.

We could probably take over the world in a week. Well, they three could.


	14. Chapter 14

**Taylor's Point of View**

Fucking sea life! Otters! I shoulda shot the creepy little things myself! It is only because she's got a whole herd of angels around her that Ana wasn't bitten by one of the beasts. I could just picture it the whole time I was making my Olympic dash to the pier, her perfect face scarred by one of those fuckers chewing on it before I could get her safely away from it. I almost joined in the praying from Sawyer and Cottie when she put the dangerous thing back down and moved away. I thought it was over and done with.

But nooooo. They had to nest on land and get landed on by the local fire department. In front of Ana. She would have thrown herself under the wheels of that heavy motherfucker herself rather than see those things squashed. Too much girl in her. No toughness. At least in her heart.

I finish getting the boss' wig in place. Since her heart's set on being at a beach party, and the boss' heart is set on her, we gotta get him to Alki Beach before some schmuck makes a pass at Ana. That means another disguise. Elliot's gone without one – he's on his own unless the boss says we gotta cover him, too. So we went with the blond surfer dude look. Blond ponytail, blue contacts, gave him a bigger nose – silicon has come a long way since a fake mole and plastic scars. He's got the long surfer shorts on, white with big flowers, and I've spray tanned him dark.

While all this is going on he's looking up on the Internet at light speed how to act, what to say, what to do. The man is a business mogul. The man has multiple ventures, businesses, companies, and corporations, enterprises, both for-profit and non-profit. He controls an international company that makes life-changing, no - world-changing, decisions on a daily basis. Buffet, Branson, Hearst, Carnegie … Grey's one of the top five wealthiest men in the USA, top thirty world-wide. And he ain't thirty yet.

Now that's Ana's helped me put together a few dots, I can see exactly what happened. Before the messed up fucker that was a teenage Christian Grey could get around to having a real life – or whatever kids whose parents are so rich they never changed their own bed sheets would call a real life – Elena Lincoln came along and roped him up as her little kinky BDSM toy. He never even really got away from her when his old man bought him into Harvard, and he sure as hell wasn't kegging with frat boys or doing the school whores. He can pick up a one night stand, if she'll sign the NDA, because he's one good looking shithead, and he ain't got no problems getting his Submissives cause he's rich and they all know he'll give 'em whatever they want as long as they let him beat their asses and fuck 'em to near death. And there ain't any lack of women, and men – which he don't swing that way, at all the black-list clubs he gets off on visiting.

But he ain't ever been to a beach party and he doesn't even know the rules of beach volleyball, how to play Frisbee friendly-like, and what dance moves to make. I add in about making her a s'more or two, and he's a little horrified to think of people just fingering and sharing food – the man licks assholes for breakfast, but is weirded out about a dozen hands in a marshmallow bag? Get a grip. And I counsel him that while sex on the beach is great, you don't do it where a half a hundred other guys can catch a look, maybe even ask to join in with a few other females. This ain't a club and Ana ain't that kind of girl.

This brings up a whole other problem. Ana isn't ready to return to Escala, she got physically ill when he tried to get her to come back. And doing it at her place is all well and good, but he's supposed to be treating her well and that don't mean them being a show for me and the boys or the neighbors. Not to mention the boss' brother and Ana's roommate. Ana's a screamer – lucky bastard – and since Ana, Grey's gone all vocal with how good she's making him feel – lucky bastard.

We get there just as the sun is going down. Katts reports that Ana's had three beers. I roll my eyes when Grey picks out a bottle of water from the coolers set up near a table. The girl's twenty-one, just graduated from college, has a new job, went through a traumatic car accident that again I can only claim guardian angels as having brought her out unharmed, a multitude of other things … and has fucked-up BDSM (is he really an ex just because we tore down his play room?) king Christian Grey hot on her trail. She should be getting drunk nightly.

But off he goes down to the beach where she's sitting laughing with her friends like any normal girl. Sawyer's got things covered so I take myself off to the parking area where the paparazzi are grouped like caged animals, and begin to negotiate their backing off. If they want big coverage, meaning giant greenbacks for them, of a blowout wedding and eventually little Greys who will inevitably crash cars while intoxicated and punch out some diplomat at a Presidential banquet, they gotta back off a little. The man has to capture her before they'll get any of that. She's a wary creature since he put her little paw in a trap twice now, so everyone needs to hunker down in the brush and keep their mouths (and cameras) shut.

If they don't, I'll just beat a few to pulp and the rest will get the idea. Or I'll beat a few more up. They don't learn? I'll set Sawyer on them. I hear from Welch, who's got a detail on him (different security department from mine with Grey Holdings) that Dale Jennings the reporter with West Coast Gossip who swatted Ana in the face and sent Sawyer into a rage so that my second broke his face, is on his second reconstructive surgery. That's the kind of work I call competent.

No problem.


	15. Chapter 15

Christian's Point of View

Well, now that everyone's ripped my ass and told me what to do, I get to try and salvage my romantic weekend. The ring's in my surfer shorts pocket, just in case the time turns right. But I need to impress Anastasia with how I can fit in with her party lifestyle. In a few months when she's back to trusting me, maybe we can go to one of the tamer clubs where I'm a member. She'd look like hot fresh lava in a little black leather outfit with a collar on a chain. She likes to dance and there's this one place where you can attach the chained Sub to a pole and she can dance with other Subs, but no Doms can do anything else but look. Any woman chained to the pole is off limits except to the owner.

And I will be the owner of Anastasia.

I've been to the best beaches in the world. First with my family as a kid, then for business. Believe me, you're courting a company's CEO or President, an exclusive resort or estate beachfront makes an impression. But I've never been here. It's almost night, so I look around as I traipse down the sand incline toward the water and my lady. Nothing special, just sand and people, buildings that could be made to look more special. Elliot's notices me and gives me an OK sign with thumb and circled index finger, then snakes his arm around Kate's neck and kisses her. How he can do something so public with the paps just yards away is beyond me. He's had more pictures of himself and countless women in the society pages and gossip rags than Clinton when he got a BJ from the blue dress girl. Plus, he's ten years older than Kate. Doesn't that make him feel … old? I feel like a griffon, ancient, wise and jaded around Anastasia. But, like Elliot, I don't seem to care. I just need to be with her, the woman of my dreams. If I'd had any, that is.

Me, I'm undercover. The worst that happens is the paps recognize Taylor and his people and look around for me. But Christian Grey will not be fodder for their benefit. No fucking way. All they're gonna get with long range lenses is Anastasia with some gorgeous surfer dude. Me. Does it bother me that they'll think she's moved on to some slick blonde with muscles? Not a bit. Any asshole gossip-reader can tell at one look that Anastasia isn't some money-grubbing floozy and they'll most likely guess it's me in disguise, but I'm not putting on a show. It is what it is.

The Cascade Suite at the Fairmont Olympic Hotel is booked. This is a son of a bitch issue that needs to not happen again. There are very few hotels that Taylor and Welch keep a close watch on, with the staff under continual NDA signing and review, so I can do some business entertaining, which is necessary usually three times a week. Now that my weekends are going to be permanently free, with the exception of when I take Anastasia away to exactly where my mother tells me I should versus trying to branch out for some originality – I never even thought about Anastasia making beds and fluffing up towels – Mrs. Jones does it at Escala and I guess I didn't think it through of who was going to do all that shit when I dismissed the staff at the Bed and Breakfast … my point is that I'll be able to do some business on the weekends now. Hell, maybe I should do some dinners out with my parents and siblings, grandparents. Anastasia seems really social and I need to be sure she gets enough interaction with people or she'll wilt. That can't be allowed to happen.

So since the Cascade Suite isn't available – and I inform the manager to just reserve the damn thing for me 24/7 until he hears otherwise, I reserve one of their Corner Suites, emphasizing it better have damn terrific soundproofing. It'll have to do, as the things I want to do with Anastasia involve a lot of her screaming as I pleasure her endlessly, and if Elliot can't manage to convince Kate to go home with him and stays at the apartment, I don't want to hear from him about my future wife's screams breaking glass as she has her tenth orgasm. Sounds kinky; who knew vanilla could be so exciting. So we're going to a hotel.

And until I can work Anastasia over her fear of being in my, no, our home, I suspect we'll just be moving into the Fairmont. That's not appealing to me, but it'll take time to get a decent home bought and renovated for us. Fuck! I've got some of the best minds on this planet working for me. Surely one of them can come up with a plan to get Anastasia over her fear. The playroom is gone. I can make her comfortable there again … I have to.

I'm about ten feet away from my little love's group when she pops up and runs over to me. I guess all Taylor's work is useless when it comes to Anastasia. As if I look like me she throws herself into my arms and starts sobbing about those damn otters. Now what? I know enough to put my arms around her, and this time I don't say anything about them being stupid animals and their loss isn't hurting anyone. Are all women this fucking cut up over animals dying? It's never come up in my life before. They all liked furs, snakeskin shoes and purses, and certainly anything leather. So maybe it's just Anastasia. I could buy her a nature preserve. "Baby, it's all right." I can say that. Taylor and Flynn and Elliot, after I got thrown out of Anastasia and Kate and Ethan's apartment this morning, all told me that line is a classic and usually you can't go wrong. The most I have ever reassured a woman before Anastasia was when I'd push a Sub and she needed reassured to go further or not break from how far I'd tested her pain levels. Then it was a command to "Breathe" and I'd repeat that until their little crisis blew past.

"Christian, I was so excited about us going away together. And now it's all ruined. And I don't even know if this thing between us is going to work out. You were so cold about the otters and even now I can tell you don't really care," Anastasia sobs against my chest.

Fuck my chest and back issues. That bastard who enjoyed burning me must be laughing in his grave, because if Anastasia needs my chest to cry on, it's hers. It occurs to me, in what I consider must be a Dr. John Flynn moment, that Mia has cried against my chest, has hugged me, all of her life. Sure I stiffened up and even sometimes peeled her off of me, but mostly I let her. And now I'm all of a sudden letting Anastasia. Yeah, it's love. That's all there is to explain it. Luckily I'm not so crazy that I think anything sexual about my baby sister, but I know I'm on track. It's the same need I have to care for and protect Mia, times a thousand with Anastasia.

I let my pretty girl ramble on, getting her to sip some of the water to counteract the three beers she's had. No point in lying about the animals, I was a little obvious, but I'll get the nature preserve thing going on Monday. I'll have it named after her.

Once she's calmed back down we rejoin her friends, three of my staff at Grey's Publishing, and they all share their experiences with dying or squashed animals. At first I think they must be insane and plan to fire the lot of them on Monday, but then Anastasia shares about animals she and her dad Ray rescued, some of which didn't make it. And she smiles. It's dark, but the light of the fires reflecting off the ocean show those pretty white teeth, and the weight that's been lying on my shoulders lifts. The crisis is passing.

Elliot comes down with Kate and tells me he needs me for a volleyball game. I've read up on this and it only takes maybe fifteen minutes of him practicing with me so I get the feel of the ball and the sand underfoot, and I can judge how to handle it. They decide on 3 man teams and I get Katts to join in, glad I've got a security ear bud in so Taylor can inform me that one of the things Katts resume included was an interest in beach volleyball. That may sound a little unlikely, having a security man who is qualified in just what I need, but it's not. I'm Christian Grey. Master of the Universe. And luckiest son of a bitch alive.

Anastasia, Kate and their friends cheer us on as we begin to take on the lineup of teams. Whether it's formal or not, there's always a group ready to challenge us three for the next two hours. Elliot comes up with the name GPO, which stands for Greys Plus One. Stupidest thing I've ever heard of, but Katts doesn't mind – like I would care but I know Anastasia would – so whatever floats. The important thing here is that I am making out like a normal man in front of Anastasia, thus proving my appeal. We beat the other teams hands down, to the cheers of Elliot and my's women, and a crowd of night beach party goers. GPO finally calls it quits and bows out to let the second place guys battle on. Elliot and I have our own plans for the rest of the night, and I suspect Katts can have his pick of the beach bunnies who were cheering him on.

There are a couple of blips. Even with the larger nose, I've still got a face to make women drop their panties, and several women come right up and try to latch on. Anastasia all but smacks their hands, which is fine by me. She's adorable when she's jealous, an emotion neither of us are used to. Me to feeling it and she to feeling and acting on it. After she shoves off a girl in a bikini the size of a rubber band, I suggest we leave and she agrees with a cute snarl. Once in the SUV, I make my move. "I've rented us a small suite at the Fairmont Olympic Hotel. Is that all right?" First, I never took one of my Subs anywhere other than Esclava, car shopping, and twice to Neiman's – which that was never repeated as they both got the _completely _wrong idea and I had to end their contracts that same weekend ... so I have never asked a woman that question. So I am proud of myself for getting the words out so easily. Second, if she says no, I'm taking her there anyway.

My reasoning is simple. Since the night, or morning, of my second monumental fuckup from hell, Anastasia has had me blue balled. We've spent every single weeknight from six until nine o'clock on her and Kate's couch, talking of what I feel is monumentally inconsequential parts of my life, although hers is quite interesting. I've spent a good majority of those three hours Monday through Friday making out with her. As Kate and Ethan are both usually out with dates, in their room with dates (well, Kate is with Elliot) or doing something else as soon as they have finished demolishing whatever delicious meal my goddess has made us all, that has been a lot of making out. At first, it was necessary. I had ruined things so badly between us that Anastasia was fearful and even repulsed by my touch. It took a solid week of necking to teach her to reach for me once more. By then, she'd trained me to want this new closeness. Cuddling, I found, is an art form and one to be appreciated.

But now it was time to move on. We'd almost gotten there this morning. Anastasia was touching me, making love to me, no withdrawals or hesitations, when the fucking house went San Francisco 1906. And despite her babbling about us not making it as a couple because I don't give a flying fuckwhat about otters, she still wants me. Its there in how she watches me, how she looks at me, how she responds to my touch. I spent the last decade, give or take, learning what every action and reaction means to a human being. I can tell when a CEO is going to fold and accept an offer, I know when a woman is about to come – both from watching their faces. Anastasia still wants me. And tonight, what's left of it, is going to rebuild this bridge.

So I kiss her and cuddle her to me and we arrive at the hotel. Then it hits me. S'mores. I never made her a fucking germ-infested graham cracker, chocolate and marshmallow sandwich at the beach party. And Taylor said that was important. Will she still fuck me if I didn't make her one or two? Oh, hell. I wish she was just my Sub!


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

I let Christian take my hand as we walk into the hotel. I now have the security program worked out and everything goes what they consider to be flawlessly. Taylor was driving and Cottie was shotgun with Christian and me in the back seat kissing and snuggling, all sandy and on Christian's part dried sweat holding the sand. I hoped to hell he was planning to take off the fake nose plastic stuff – I didn't want to think where that thing could get stuck the way – from memory – he likes to sniff … everywhere. So we glide up to the front hotel entrance, and they both get in, scanning like armed robbers are going to jump out of the bushes. Then Cottie opens the back door right onto the carpeted walkway and I get out first. Christian moves smoothly across the bench seat and gets out behind me, takes my hand in his and we walk in behind Taylor, Cottie behind us. I have no idea who is going to take the black tank these people seem to ignore must get 2 miles to the gallon city driving away. If things work out, I just might ask Christian to convert all these behemoth vehicles to solar or something. It's not that I want to give Taylor a heart attack, but this is the twenty-first century and green is clean. And surely solar vehicles can be safe, too. Right?

We proceed in under the view of two black-coated and hatted hotel employees, me in my shorts, tank and flip flops that Kate had picked out for post-swimming and stuffed into the beach bag which I now carried with me, and Christian still dressed as a blonde beach bum complete with surfing trous and beach shoes, a wife beater making him look so delicious that absolutely every single person in the lobby area stop dead and just stare at him. My Inner Goddess makes her appearance. Dressed in a bikini that consists of real diamonds ("Dream on," hisses my Conscience), her hair perfectly seaside windblown, makeup and lip gloss perfect and not a grain of sand stuck anywhere unfortunate, she tosses her head and takes over. _ "Straighten your spine up, Ana. Walk like you've got yourself one hot man and are going to suck his brains out. Strut! You know how you're always saying Kate would look good in a potato sack? Well, its attitude, bitch! Now toss that dirty hair, put a coy smile on your bare lips, and blink those makeup-less eyes wide open. So you got a left black eye – just means you are one tough bitch. How does that disgusting joke go … What do you call a girl with one black eye? A fast learner. Thatta girl, got you to do one of those snarling smiles all the models show off while on the catwalk! Thrust the tits out ("Not that much!" screeches my Conscience, so I pull back a little) arch your back, and give him a smile that says you're not sure if things are going too fast and maybe you'll suggest in just a minute that he take you back home. See? See? He's a hunter. You run and he'll pounce."_

Sure enough, Christian gets this horrified look on his face, which he covers up in a flash to once more look cold and unconcerned, and tightens his fingers around mine. The manager, probably alerted when the SUV pulled up, appears at the desk as we approach. My eyes travel around the expansive lobby, up wide staircases where a piano with its lid open sits, around the like ten different seating areas with all the flowers and artwork and … well, it's just plain rich looking. You'd think that at eleven-thirty the place would be deserted, but instead there's plenty of people either attending some party or getting ready to head out for some nightlife. Dear God, please don't let me look like some prostitute Christian has picked up from a beachside club. My Conscience is ripping through what little we know about prostitutes at beachside. We don't know anything. So let's go with the Inner Goddess' idea and just strut and look ready to run.

The manager, not any more confused by Christian's disguise than I was, smoothly offers a booklet which Christian signs and Taylor steps forward to take the code for the door. He disappears via elevator to do the security check on the room and we take our time traveling up the grand stairway, holding hands. Well, Christian has a death grip on my hand, so it's not exactly holding … but he's flinging orders at the manager who is jogging up beside us. Apparently we will be eating Foie Gras Pate with White Truffle Infused Parmesan French Toast, Butter Poached Lobster with Black Truffle and Celeriac Gnocchi, Carpaccio of Aged Pecorino, Icewine Strawberry Shortcake with Almond Cocoa Nib Croquant and Whipped Ganache. Of course champagne. It all sounds wonderful. Why didn't he do this to begin with, instead of taking me to a Bed & Breakfast and having me make the meals?

Taylor appears as Cottie guides us from the balcony view of the lobby and we go to the elevator. This is it … do or die time. Is it rude to ask him if we can take a shower before I try out my reading material on how to give a guy the best blowjob of his life? I'm up for what he's gonna shoot down my throat, but sand isn't really necessary as well … is it? We enter the room, Christian shuts the door and suddenly things are moving fast. He simply picks me up and finds my mouth with his. It's a peculiar mixture of softness and strength. His right shoulder is under my head and I get my left arm up, my fingers flickering through all that … wait a minute! "Stop," I screech and Christian, who was heading for the bedroom comes to a screeching halt, bangs his foot on a table leg or his shin or something, curses, jerks, and I start to go down.

Now I've had just about my limit on injuries in the past forty-eight, or is it twenty-four?, hours, so I scrunch up and fist the fingers of my right hand in his wife-beater shirt. It rips, but my momentum has halted enough for Christian to put his arms firmly around me and, still hopping, doesn't drop me. "What," he screams at me, since he's hurting and I think I've scared him half to death with my own yelling.

"I can't do this," I explain, beating at him to let me go. But he's holding on and I see the steam starting to come out his ears. "You don't look anything like you."

He stops mid-ballistic preparation, and I see it click. His eyebrows, still golden-red, both shoot up towards the edge of that blonde wig as those blue contacts try to contain the grey of his eyes. All around that big nose. He turns and carries me through the bedroom and into a bathroom the size of your average apartment's living room and turns with military precision to the mirror. There, he grins at his reflection as I narrow my eyes on how truly attractive I look with my hair knotted and salt-laden stringy, the black eye really best described as a shiner, and I finally get a whiff of myself. Jesus Christ and a bucket of catfish! What happened to me? Since I first met Christian, I'd just gone downhill. I'd never been a glam girl, but I'd been decent. Now I was … disgusting. I sigh. "Put me down, Christian. I need a shower and it's going to take me an hour to get my hair unknotted."

He sets me down on my feet without argument, turns on the shower for me. The man has tied me up like a fancy roast and seen me pee myself, so there's no point in being shy. I strip off and brush past him to get into the shower. By the time he's done getting off the entire disguise, I'm done and we pass – me getting out and Christian getting into the shower – without speaking. I dig around and find a hair dryer, fancy black and gold, and sit down at a dressing table to begin the task of taming ten pounds of brown hell. I look like a Pomeranian. A frigging Pomeranian on a bad hair day.

Christian, looking like my red haired grey eyed patrician nosed god, gets out of the shower and unfortunately wraps a towel around his waist. Even, er, uninflated, the man hangs a long, long way down. Mmm. He catches my look in the steam-proof mirror and grins. I can't help it and blush. That turns him on and the towel begins to lift. I yank my eyes back up to his and he's really grinning now. Dammit! Now I'm blushing more. He comes over to me and leans down to kiss my neck. I think that's where he was originally going, but the Pomeranian poof foils him. So he settles for kissing my head, getting a zap of hot air from the blow dryer as I almost drop it from a suddenly wear grasp. The man is just sizzling and I feel the burn. My Inner Goddess is so excited she's doing handstands that lead to backbends that lead to her imagining how Christian can take us from that position. Oh my.

Christian turns off the hair dryer and asks, "Better?" I nod, mouth dry, tongue not working. Maybe I electrocuted myself when he kissed my hair? He grabs a handful now, moves it, and goes for the mind-destroying kiss to the sensitive area where the collarbone dips below the shoulder and joins the neck. When he sinks his teeth in there, just the right spot, my eyes close and I drop the fucking hair dryer and moan. Immediately his strong arms go around me and I'm crushed back to his body. I can feel my body going wet and needy for him. Just him. There's a moment when I remember how things have ended twice before, me bruised and battered physically and emotionally, then he kissed his way up the side of my neck and warm breath assaults my ear, and I let it all go. This is what I want. To be made love to, to have an orgasm in response to this man's command to do so, to feel all those delicious sensations that make being a woman so fabulous.

He lifts me up off the bench and this time I'm not saying no. He reaches the bed, juggles me one armed, and pulls everything off except the bottom sheet. I guess we don't need pillows. Then Christian takes both our towels off and … sits down. Side by side. Looking at me. Jesus! What now? My Inner Goddess is SCREAMING in a freak out reminiscent of a chicken with its head cut off. My Conscience suggests now is the time to remind him that if he pulls out any beating instruments or asks me about peeing that I am going to ask for Taylor's gun and shoot his dick off. My SubConscience peeks out, decides this isn't a life or death situation, and hides back under the mound of bed clothes on the lush carpeting.

Christian takes both my hands and stares into my eyes. I probably look dazed and confused, because he grins and chuckles. "Anastasia, what birth control are we using?"

I immediately blush. I swear to god I thought he knew I was doing those Lunelle injections. And he did supply me with his bill of clean health. "I'm taking shots now," I whisper. Why does this embarrass me? Other than the fact that he's my first and only lover, I've never talked about these things with anyone. Carla sure as hell never gave me any kind of "talk" and Ray just signed the school papers asking for permission to give sex education … and believe me, it was way lacking.

Christian gives me a rather unhappy look. What? Was this the wrong answer? "Anastasia, those take time to work."

Ok. I nod. So sex was off. Great. Then my Conscience's eyes narrow. Or is this some way of saying he wants a blow job … he is one sexually doctorate level beast. What do I know about what he wants and likes … needs?

"I don't want to use a condom," he goes on. He's still holding both of my hands. The palms are wet. This is just as well as his weird behavior has made what's between my legs less wet. Can't he just be normal?

I nod again.

"Is this a safe time for you," he finishes off with. "We can use the Rhythm Method." He lifts both my hands and kissed the knuckles, very seductively.

I'm not paying attention to the seduction, though. I'm thinking about what he just said. How the hell should I know if it's a safe time? Anyone ever try this rhythm method shit? It's mighty unsuccessful from what I hear. Since we're discussing it, however … "Don't you just give your Subs those pills on Sunday?"

I've obviously derailed him. Christian gives me a look like I've just offered him an iguana … completely baffled. "What pills?"

"You know. Like you gave me that one time. The morning after Pill." He blinks. "Plan B?"

His hands tighten on mine. "What the hell are you talking about, Anastasia? I have never given you anything but Advil." Now he's angry. Since its familiar ground, he looks comfortable here. He drops my hands and goes for the shoulders and upper arms, both squeezing and shaking. "Well?"

Unfortunately, I'm also used to Angry Christian. Or should I say ramping up to Angry Christian. I want to be a little mouse and scurry away, but I've gotten stronger over the past two months, and I understand him better. He really doesn't know what I'm talking about, and that irritates him. Tough, I've got to get my facts straight right now. "You didn't give me a morning after pill," I double check.

"No," he spits out between clenched jaws.

"Just Advil? Never anything else?"

"Never." This is accompanied by a shake. My hair falls over my face in an effort to frizz by closer contact with Christian the electric power company who is ready to explode.

"Well … Jeez," I get out, trying to shake my hair back as Christian releases my now rather ouchy shoulders and gets two handfuls brushed away from my face. "How many kids do you have out there?" I mean, come on. The man has sex like every two hours with women he's bought and paid for. Birth control fails. Mother Nature rules. "Ten? Twenty?"

He turns deep red and bounces off the bed like he's catapulted and storms from the room yanking on a hotel robe from off the back of the bedroom door. Just to be a pestering bitch, I wrap a sheet toga style around myself (since there's not a second robe on the door) and follow him right out. "Seriously," I half yell until I catch up with him. He's letting the room service guy in with Taylor checking everything out. I refuse to be daunted. Taylor's seen me naked – no comment – and to hell with the room service guy because I'm wearing more covering now than when I came through the doors of this place. "Is it Russian Roulette?"

Taylor hooks the guy by his uniform collar and the two of them disappear out the door, which Christian slams shut before turning to look at me. His gray eyes rake me like I'm a piece of slick liver – I hate liver – and he sneers. His lip curls up, the left upper side, and those eyes glare like evil silver knives under lowering brows … his shoulders bunch under the robe and he seems to swell upward and outward.

**OH. NO. YOU. DON'T. ** My Subconscious has come out to play. She puts two fingers under my chin and lifts so while I am staring up at him, I'm still staring up at him with head tilted high. That's helped because she's placed herself squarely behind me so I can't turn and run, which my Inner Goddess really wants me to do. My Conscience, mindful of past abuse, has already informed me that if I yelp for Taylor he will no doubt come back into the hotel room and rescue me. He did promise.

Now my SubConscience lifts my left arm and helps me make a fist, then point my index finger toward a very nice couch off the entryway. "Don't you dare yell at me, Christian Grey. Time out," I yell.

It's obvious he has no idea what I mean. That and he doesn't believe I'm speaking to him like that. His mother really really really did a piss poor job of teaching him to control this temper of his. "Go sit down on that sofa," I order in my most assertive screeching manner. To top it off, I stamp my bare foot. That'll tell him I mean business.

His eyes move from my face, glaring, to my arm, finger pointing, to my right foot, stomping. He takes in a breath through his nose, then seems to deflate as he lets it out. Dutifully, he goes to the couch and sits. Just like every mother who practices this tradition of punishment, I follow him. "You are in time out for 28 minutes, mister. That's one minute for ever year of your age. You don't move from there, got it? And you just think about what you did wrong." With that, I disappear back into the suite and head for the bathroom to tame my hair.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

**Taylor's Point of View**

Oh my God!

She put him in Time Out!

Little Miss Just Outta College Ex-Virgin Anastasia Steele just put Billionaire Asshole BDSM King Christian Grey in Time Out! I'm gonna piss myself laughing. Ouch! Ouch! Oh Fuck Me Christ, my guts are gonna burst!

**Cottie's Point of View**

When T bugged the hotel room, it was a relief. We've both promised, in our own ways, to save that poor girl if Mr. DickAssWipe ever starts to hurt her again. In a bad way. More than she's agreed to.

Whatever! It's a fucked up lifestyle Grey lives and Ana is willing to try kinky only at this stage of the game. We haven't discussed it, nor will we as that would be grossly unprofessional, but I know what I know. She's willing, even interested, in spreading her wings with Grey. Honestly, since he's so obviously ready to turn over a new page, it may work for them. There's always a few cases where the bad apple turns good. Or is the sour apple turns green? Or you can make applesauce out of wormy Washingtons?

My point is, we can hear everything going on. Things got unclear in the bathroom when the shower and hair dryer were on, but then things go just plain kooky after they come out and go into the bedroom.

Now T's on the floor rolling around he's laughing so hard, tears coming out of his eyes like it's raining. Grey's sitting on the couch for bad behavior. And Ana's back in the bathroom blow drying that mountain of hair she's got.

I am getting paid nowhere near enough for this job.


	18. Chapter 18

I've heard of this happening. It was like an urban legend as far as I was concerned. Because I didn't have children, and I'm not planning on it until I'm at least thirty. Somewhere between thirty and thirty-five works for me. But I had heard this can happen. Something to do with all the excitement and stress and secret feelings of guilt … endorphins? Dolphins? PMS? No, that's us women. Whatever it is, it's happened.

Christian fell asleep while in time out.

I stand in the entryway to the little sitting room off the side from the hotel suite's doorway. He's conked out. Dead to the world. Reclining on his back, one bare foot on the fancy – French? – carpet. His white robe, I guess it's the hotel's as I put the matching one on I found behind the bathroom door, is open to show a delicious amount of muscled thighs and part of that hard muscled chest. He's got a light covering of red hair on every part I can see … yummy.

I wonder around the suite for a bit. Eat. Delicious. I cook basic, this is just like … well, maybe it's French, too. But it's really good. I shovel it all in, leaving the strawberry dessert for later. I even drink two glasses of the champagne. You know, it would have been perfect to sit in that big Jacuzzi tub in the bathroom. Hot water, cold champagne. Maybe Christian sucking on my toes. Or I could suck on his. And a lot of bubbles that smell exotic. A girl can dream.

I should be tired, but I'm not. Too much excitement, or too much drug-induced sleep from that pain pill Christian gave me last night. Well, at this point, Friday night. Since he's sleeping I can't even point out he's lied about never giving me anything but Advil, as he gave me that pill. Double sigh. Well, I can be ready for when he wakes up. And I want to read the insert in the package of Lunelle. I'm pretty sure it takes effect in like one day. Christian doesn't know what he's talking about. He probably does have ten or twenty children running around. He didn't exactly deny it.

I go and dress in my shorts, the top from my bikini and t-shirt, flip flops. I'll have Cottie take me home, change into clean clothes, grab my overnight bag and stuff in it what I'll need. When Christian wakes up I can have on that slinky black and pink teddy I bought. And in case he takes me out somewhere today, a nice sundress and low heels. This place is swanky enough it has to offer spa services. Would Christian mind if I ordered a massage? With him, who knows, so I better not. But someday I am coming back to this place and ordering a whole spa package. Hot rocks, seaweed wraps, whatever and everything.

I call Cottie and tell her I want to head back to the apartment, pick up a few things, and then come back here. She meets me outside the suite and we head out to the SUV.

At home it's quiet. Ethan is either out somewhere or dead to the world in his room. Since there's no sign of Elliot's vehicle and Kate always leaves a trail of clothes if she's home alone, I am assuming she's spending the night at Elliot's. That's unusual, as she find his apartment to be "well used," as she explained to me. She has shown me his life story on the Internet. At least the last ten years or so. All you have to do is Google him and there is Elliot Grey with woman after woman. I forget that he's a millionaire, mostly because he's fun and he's always dressed in jeans and steel-toed boots, a t-shirt and heavy belt. Just like a construction worker. But besides being gorgeous, he's wealthy in his own right, and that draws the women. Kate has shared with me that she's not worried about how any of them looks – she's been raised in the Kavanaugh household as the sole Princess and has no doubts as to how beautiful she is – but the ages of some of them do give her some bad moments. With Elliot being ten years older than her, she's worried that if he does consider settling down, she won't be on his poster board. She figures he'll want someone close to his own age, someone ready for nights spent watching TV, boring business dinners and a few kids. None of which she is ready for, being only twenty-one.

I can't even honestly reassure Kate. I'm on the Christian Grey insanity ride. It's about sex and BDSM, kink and a lot of … crazy. We're not talking love and forever after. Real life is some sensible businessman who'll come home every night after a normal work day, eat what you make him, and either fall asleep watching some sports channel or do you three times a week in the missionary position. That was real life. If Elliot wanted that now … well, I guess it was up to Kate if she could play that role.

I never unpacked from my great weekend away that ended up with me in a tuna fish can and later being smoked like a filet. I smile to myself at the fish theme, but it's late and I'm beginning to feel tired now and can't really come up with a good use for snapper. And isn't there some fish called lamprey or something? Lamp. Well, maybe after I've got some sleep. I repack lightly, then get back in the SUV with Cottie and Ryan. When Christian's finally moves on to Sub #17, I'm gonna miss these guys. And there's a depressing thought. I let my Conscience slap me around a little. I'm just tuckering out and need some sleep. My self-esteem does tend to plummet with exhaustion.

The Fairmont Olympic is deserted at two in the morning. So I take advantage as Cottie tells me we need to wait a few minutes, and look around. It is really lovely. Snazzy, like you expect rich people to live like. Actually, Christian does and his parents' home is even fancier looking than this. I study the paintings, excellent replicas I think, on the walls; then an automatic flashback of what happened after we'd gone to the Seattle Museum of Art and spent the evening looking at Rembrandt, Van Dyck, and Gainsborough strikes me like a bullet. I'm immediately sick, it's an involuntary reaction, and toss all that lovely fancy food right into a flower vase that's the size of a trashcan. I'm sure it's not pretty, but thankfully no one but the lobby staff, Cottie and now Ryan are here to see it.

Throwing up, barfing, is like a top five of things I hate to do. When I'm finally empty and use my willpower to drive the images away, I find myself on my knees in front of the flower vase. Cottie is holding my hair back and a woman from the hotel has a cold wet clothe she gives me. I tell everyone I'm sorry and they all make reassuring noises. The hotel woman assures me they've had worse, then goes on to share how Britney Spears stripped off her clothes and tried to do a show on top of the piano, which was only beat by Danny DeVito chasing his wife half naked through the dining room. So my throwing up without an audience was not news worthy.

She and Cottie get me to a bathroom that is obviously meant to be in the Queen's Palace in Great Britain, and I wash off my face and brush my teeth. Hotel woman, my new "Who I Want To Be When I Grow Up" idol, even gives me mouth wash. And then she blows it. Combing my hair back from my face with her fingers in a motherly way, she says, "There. Now when you meet that woman with Mr. Grey you won't look so bad."

There are several things really wrong with that statement. Really, really wrong. I go with three "really"s and my Conscience slaps her hand over her mouth, which is supposed to stop me. My Inner Goddess, who has on the black and pink V-neck teddy with its sexy little thong that no woman finds comfortable but she is wearing it so we can get an orgasm, is frozen in handstand position. My eyes shoot to the mirror and I look at Cottie's face. She's one rock hard motherfucking bitch of a body guard, but her eyes give her away.

She knew. She knows. It's why I'm still downstairs. I never even thought about it. What reason could there have possibly been for me to wait downstairs in the hotel lobby when Christian is sleeping in the fancy hotel suite he rented. Even if he'd woken up, Taylor or whoever took over for him would have told Christian that I'd just gone home to get an overnight case and was coming back. Nothing for him to go ballistic over.

My stare cracks Cottie. She babbles, "its Ms. Lincoln. She'd been trying to contact Mr. Grey all weekend, and she somehow found out he was here. Probably the paps. And she showed up after you left and stupid White let Mr. Grey know. And …" she trails off and her face goes absolutely blank. She's gone pale and for all the emotion she is showing I could write my Master's thesis on it. Which reminds me, I need to look up some good Master's programs – My Inner Goddess clubs my Conscience (who was trying to distract me there for a second) with a baseball bat. The poor thing goes flying across the room and collapses in a heap. Oh goody. My Inner Goddess is given free reign. Or is it rein? Rain? Bloody fucking giant monsoon is what's happening.

The hotel woman has realized she's let a moose out of the bag and has fled. I stop Cottie's move to use her wrist communication device. "Oh, no. You owe me this one." I don't even recognize my voice. It's cold and hard and empty. "No one is going to warn Christian I'm on my way up, do you understand? When it is discussed later (like I'm sure it will be), you can say I wouldn't stop down here. And you could hardly tackle me to the ground."

I turn and walk to the service elevator bank, taking the back exit. Ryan is probably still at the entrance to Luxury Toilet Land or in the lobby. Cottie, with my eyes trained on her as I get inside the certainly much less impressive lift, keeps her hands down at her sides. We walk in silence down the fancy designed carpet. White, who I don't know other than having seen him at Grey Publishing maybe twice, hanging out near the front doors if memory serves, stands down at a gesture from my security. He plugs in the number code for the door to the suite, then steps back.

I step inside and sling my overnight case down on the floor. Then I look around, listening. Their voices are coming from the bedroom. I am wearing slip on sneakers. You can't get quieter than that. So I glide over, in my Mata Hari exotic dancer outfit that my Inner Goddess has mentally dressed me in. Now I would bet a million dollars of Christian Grey's money that I know exactly what the reason is for her visit at half past two on a Sunday morning. In fact, I'm responsible for it.

But dear "I want you back" Christian could have escorted her from the hotel suite, or had Mr. White escort her if he was too fucking wimpy to do it himself, and said to come back at a decent time. But noooo. Apparently he had told security that if I, the evil doer who had put him in timeout, arrived, to hold me downstairs in the lobby until he finished.

Finished what, is what I want to know now. Given my little cookie tossing episode, even if Elena Bitch Troll had arrived ten seconds before I did, he's had enough time to discuss bailing her ass out from financial woes. At least for this time of night.

So I glide along and get to the bedroom door. And sure enough. They're in bed together.


	19. Chapter 19

This is the bedroom where we almost had sex. I have no doubt that sex would have included my wrists being tied up with something or other so Christian could be sure I didn't touch his no-go areas. I am thinking I had a 50 / 50 chance of having an orgasm – our less than recent contacts where he seems to get the big O while I hang out in left field has made me a little hesitant on that issue. But I would have gotten his generously proportioned cock inside my little kitty, his luscious mouth all over my nipples, and probably a few delicious smacks, pinches and hard grasping hands on my ass while he fucked me.

As I stand in the bedroom doorway, leaning casually as my Inner Goddess has placed me, I wonder if Elena Lincoln got what I had wanted. She had once upon a time, and she'd somehow fucked it up. It occurs to me that Christian has not revealed to me why they stopped their Dom / Sub relationship. After she gave him money to start up Grey Enterprise Holdings, were they still together, or had that altered the relationship yet again. Had Christian returned to Subbing for her ever again? I know damn well she wants him back, that's been obvious since she called me and wanted a meeting.

Now, I watch as Christian, his hand firmly between her skanky naked thighs, turns his head to see me. I've taken it all in and recognize who was trying what. Elena's got her hand over his, which he is now jerking back like he's touched a hot stove. While I'm sure she didn't know I was in the hotel room so the move wasn't for my benefit, I have no problem believing that she yanked Christian's hand down to her curl-barren muff. The man has more muscles than Zeus, but she still controls him. Just like if Ray says "Sit!" I will plop my butt into the first chair available; all those teenage years of me mouthing off come back to haunt me.

Just like all Christian's teenage years of being Elena's Sub come back to haunt him.

"Anastasia," he cries out, like in every good soap opera – caught bitch pussy handed!

My Inner Goddess is on her top game. I don't know what the bitch troll wears when she's being a Domme, but the Inner Goddess Ana is in a leather Cat woman outfit complete with sky-high heeled thigh boots and one mean looking whip. We, I mean I, remain leaning, but both eyebrows go up.

Soap opera Christian continues to cry out, "It's not what you think."

I rake my eyes over him. The white robe he had on when I left is gone. He's naked and big boy Christian is primed and ready for porno action. He follows my gaze down. He's kneeling on the bed, half turned away from skankzilla, naked as the day he was born. And there's no hiding his erection.

"I can explain," he shouts, backing off the still-naked-of-covers bed, and grabbing up the robe that's fallen to the floor. His eyes are trained on me like I'm gonna help him out of this situation.

Sure, baby. That robe didn't come off all by itself. And your dick didn't rise up just because it's cold in the bedroom. You'll screw up our every chance of trying out something even a little normal, because that's how Christian Grey rolls. I understand that, and I'll deal with you later. Right now, it's between the bitch troll and how I plan to make her suffer.

Her eyes are triumphant. She kneels on the bed naked as a Jayhawk, her chin up, a cold gleam in those blue eyes, her blond hair up in some sort of dominatrix chignon. The lights are on in the bedroom – no being shy when it comes to sex and these two BDSM players – and frankly the glare is uncomplimentary to her overly made up face. No matter how you try, fifty plus is never going to be twenty-one again. I will go much more gracefully into my fifties than troll bitch. She rakes me with those eyes as Christian is grabbing his robe. Superior, knowing, certain my heart is broken and I'll go the devastated bawling route.

Oh, no no no. I've got a plan here. She needs to reveal more of herself as the bad guy. Right now she's just the Domme who came up for a little financial rescue and was going to get boned by Christian. I'd say her way or the hard way, but my guess is the hard way is her way. Ha ha. No, Elena's plan was to bring me on board as a Sub in Training, demanding I separate from Christian during that time while I learn how to be beaten and like it. And I have no doubt she's already contacted Dr. Dom to see if he's really interested in spending his hard earned cash to put out for a contract with me.

Aren't I the popular little brown haired girl. Maybe Settle is where I need to be. I can make a fortune. What was the amount again? I get between one hundred thousand and a quarter million tax-free dollars for three months on my back? Well, chained up and on some portion of my soon to be bruised anatomy. If I sell well, that's one million a year. Maybe not what Christian thinks of as rich, but in my world, that's worth a little pain and suffering.

Playing right into my hand, Elena snaps out a Domme "Kneel!"

I swear to God, Christian almost goes down on his knees. What a fucking messed up son of a crack whore. But I shouldn't complain too much; this is exactly why he's toned down the yelling and is trying the boyfriend / girlfriend thing … because he's been trained to do what a strong woman tells him. He stiffens up and forgets about me for a minute so he can turn to rage at Elena. This means he misses my Academy winning performance of lowering my eyes and dropping to my knees on the carpet, palms up on my thighs, just like l learned in my Internet studies. I drop fast enough I feel the sting in my shins, but ignore that. Would she like it if I bowed my forehead to the floor like in those old movies of subservient women?

Christian turns, still screaming at Elena, and sees me. I see his sexy bare feet aimed my way, so I pour on the waterworks. It's not hard when you're a crier like I am. I need tissues watching smarmy television commercials, which he knows by now having spent the last three weeks on my couch. Well, Kate's couch.

You know, starting April, I was just a college Senior. I'd managed a 4.0 GPA, I was going to be getting a degree in May that could take me on a variety of paths. I had the world in front of me. A good, clean, sane world with lots of potential for happiness. That world had been more appropriate for Ana Steele. There wasn't any screaming, crying, belts, beatings, humiliations … or little dead otters who had given me whisker kisses. These days, I felt like I was watching my life from a distance, maybe on a movie screen.

And right now was no different. I think I've finally managed to disassociate myself from all the pain, because all I feel is amusement at the situation, pity for Christian because he's such a stupid jackass to be used by the troll bitch, and derision for the troll bitch for so terribly misjudging me. I'd be just glad to borrow Cottie's gun and shoot the bitch.

Jeez. What have I become?

My SubConscience strides out. Just to make her point, she's wearing the same costume as my Inner Goddess, looking damn hot. She points at me and announces … Thoughts of murder are not appropriate. Monday morning, we're getting me into therapy.


	20. Chapter 20

**Christian's Point of View**

I let Anastasia put me in her "Time Out" because I really was getting ready to go apeshit on her. It was only because she was stomping and pointing and looked so adorable that I got a hold on myself and managed to get to the fucking sofa. How I fell asleep is beyond me. Maybe the beach volleyball games took more out of me that I realized.

With spending all my early evenings with Anastasia these last weeks, then hurrying to Escala to get my work done, not to mention extra hours with Dr. Flynn, I'd gotten lax in my workouts. I'd have to figure out where to fit time for them in; Anastasia liked my body and I wasn't about to change the one thing she did whole heartedly approve of about me.

The reason I woke up was that the front desk called me to state Elena had shown up and wanted a word with me. I told them to hold her there and ordered Taylor into the hotel suite as I went to find Anastasia. After I had heart failure realizing she was gone, and before I could get a good start on tearing up the rooms like any good musician on a bender, Taylor managed to get it through my head that Anastasia, along with Prescott and Ryan, simply went to her apartment for an overnight bag and would be returning.

This meant I had time to deal with Elena. I ordered Taylor to get her ass up here then make arrangements to escort her home. I had a small window of time before Anastasia returned and there was no need for the two of them to meet. Again. I still didn't know what she'd been up to going to Anastasia's apartment for dinner three weeks ago … why hadn't I asked Anastasia for details?

See? This is what falling in fucking love did to a man! Made me a fucking cucumber on legs.

During my near rant over Anastasia being missing, I managed to turn the room service cart over and I've got food splattered on myself. Disgusted, I head to the shower for a quick clean up.

I get out, dry off fast, and head out to get something on. And there's Elena, fucking ugly naked, kneeling on the bed in true Sub form. Jesus Christ and a Basket of Bullfrogs! I control my urge to scream and maybe backhand her off the bed. Elena, despite it all, has been my only friend. I'm seeing these days how she's just as fucked up as me, and I can see how she gave me the worst advice possible regarding Anastasia … and it's obvious she's behaving this way right now because she wants something from me.

I may have blue balls, but they're painted that color only for Anastasia. The fact that my cock is saluting her is simply biology, not even desire for a quick plug and glug. There's not an inch of herself that Elena hasn't made sure is smooth and firm, but she looks plastic. We've done everything humanly possible to each other's bodies, so I casually move to grab my Blackberry and text Taylor to notify me when Anastasia returns to the Fairmont. There is not going to be some fuckup with Anastasia getting the wrong idea.

I move around the bed, picking up her clothes. She was always messy like that, expected her Sub or Subs to clean up after her. "What do you need, Elena?"

Since I'm not indicating interest in playing games, she manages to tell me about the foreclosures. All told, she needs about thirty-five million to drag her out of the shit pile. I'm not stupid. I'm a fricking genius when it comes to business numbers. She's had the Esclava Salons for five years. I don't do the books, I just sign off on taxes, help her out with ready income if there's something she wants to do with them. But friends or not, I immediately know she's taken the money and hidden it. I don't have one company, one piddly-assed supermarket chain, that's got a second mortgage, much less a third.

Elliot and Flynn have told me to get her the fuck out of my life. What they don't understand is that Elena has been my life since I was fifteen. I had gotten very busy over the years so our friendship was down to weekly lunches - a lot of them missed on my part - and very occasional and brief interactions at a society function or BDSM club. She provided my Subs for a healthy fee and I helped her out with Esclava. Our lunches touched on her business, my business, my and her Subs. I had turned to her for advice on how to handle Anastasia, the only important person (other than Elena) in my life.

If this had happened, she was threatened with foreclosure, before I spent time with Anastasia and in some small way saw the real friendship between her and Kate, her and Ethan, listened as she shared the little details about her new friends at Grey's Publishing, little details that showed how much she cared and enjoyed knowing about what made up their lives … I had thought what Elena and I had was friendship. Now I had grown to realize that what we had was sheer "dysfunction" as Flynn called it. Before, I would have shrugged off that she was pocketing the profits, maybe gave her a hat tipped in appreciation of the little move. Now, I saw it as a betrayal, money-grubbing, just one more show of how we simply use and abuse each other.

"Look, Elena." I run my hands through my hair and sigh. "Get dressed. This isn't something you give a blow job for or an ass fuck to deserve a bail out." I look at the hotel robe, decide it's got some kind of strawberry shit on it and throw it down on the floor. I need to get dressed. Anastasia will be here soon and it's high time to get Elena out of the hotel suite. "Monday morning, I'll buy you out. You sign over the loans and I'll take care of it." What in the living fucking hell am I going to do with a chain of salons?

"What?" Elena sounds like an opera singer with a sore throat.

"We need to step back from each other. I'm involved with Anastasia and I don't want her being touched by our miserable shit together. So I'll pay you off to take that step. How's fifty million sound." That's like five hundred hours of my time. I typically work seven days a week, minimum twelve hour days; so for less than six weeks of my time I can get this monkey off my back and focus on convincing Anastasia to really come back to me.

"What?" Elena is shocked. Those eyes I used to watch for every hint of emotion and thought – when I was allowed as her Sub – are amazed. "I-I …" She reaches out for my hand, tugging me forward and I automatically kneel on the bed. Quick as a snake she puts my hand on her cunt. And she looks to the doorway.

**_How the goddamn motherfucking son of a bitch did this happen!_**

"Anastasia!" Oh no. Oh no. Oh FUCKING CHRIST NO! Where's Taylor? He was told to keep Anastasia downstairs. My Blackberry is in my left hand and it hasn't pinged or vibrated once.

She's leaning weakly against the doorframe, perfect face pale, beautiful sapphire eyes huge in horror, eyebrows sky high in amazement at what she is seeing. Even in this instant of hell, I notice how gorgeous she is in simple jeans, t-shirt, and sneakers. She looks down and I realize I've got my hand cupping Elena's dry as the desert pussy and that my hard on is waving at her.

Yanking my hand away I shout, "It's not what you think." Then because that's not going to work, I add, "I can explain!" Forget the strawberry glaze, I back off the bed and get the hotel robe on with the speed of a jack rabbit. I have got to contain this situation right now.

Step one, get Elena out of here. We can talk on Monday. But right now having her naked and on the bed isn't going to keep Anastasia from bolting for the doors. If she does, whoever of my security is outside the hotel suite door is going to be ordered to tackle her and bring her right back here. No way is this going to not be settled immediately.

Elena snaps out a Domme "Kneel!"

I about fall over in shock. Did she just try to give Anastasia a command? Fuck no! I may someday convince Anastasia to play with me again, but NO ONE ELSE EVER WILL! "You don't ever take that tone in my presence or with my lady," I warn her. She just lost ten million with that stunt. Then she gives that satisfied grimacing look I remember when she's made her Sub comply, and follow her gaze back to Anastasia.

My Anastasia is down on her knees, classic Sub pose, and a wet trail of tears beginning to pour off her cheeks as she stares at the carpet.

I didn't think that I had a heart. I started out in life abused, couldn't find it in myself to offer love back to my adopted family, had any softness still hidden in me beaten to dust by Elena, never gave a shit about anyone else. Before Anastasia. I was learning what all it meant, what it _felt like_, to love. Because I was feeling things. And right now, I felt like I had taken a fork and stabbed one of those otters Anastasia had been so upset about … like I was the one who had killed them.

It hurt. Knowing what Anastasia must think, the hurt she must feel right now … it hurt me.

I bend down and pick Anastasia up off the floor where she's kneeling like a goddamn Submissive. The only thing I can be grateful for in this situation is that she hasn't run for the front door. I order her to the bathroom. It seems like the best bet at the moment. She stumbles inside and closes the door. Now to my first goal.

Elena is already dressing. Her usual black. I get a good control over myself. I recognize my persona. Dom. She does as well and I appreciate her flinch. If the scenario were different, I'd take a cane to her and see how sorry I could make her. As it is, I listen to her apology.

"I'm sorry, Christian. I just reacted automatically. You know I would never attempt to dominate your Sub. That's in the worst of manners, of course." She finishes dressing, picks up her purse and digs into it. "Here's the card for the bank. Should I keep my appointment for 10am Monday?"

"No. I'll handle it." I need to make the rules very clear, just as I do for any and all other scenes where domination is in play. I am a Master and Elena knows I have the power here. "Anastasia is my private property, Elena. She is no concern of yours and you are to have absolutely no contact with her. Not in any form. Do you understand me?"

Her eyes are on my feet. "Yes, Christian."

My heart beat has begun to slow. I have no idea how I am going to fix this with Anastasia, but I will do so. "Taylor will be waiting to escort you downstairs. On Monday you will order all of your offices cleaned out and identify managers for each one. All of them," I emphasize. "You are not to take one step into any of them. We will talk again on Thursday at lunch." Where I will be ending our friendship once and for all.

She puts the card down on the bedside table and hurriedly walks away. I follow her through the suite and to the main door and am extremely pleased to see Prescott and Ryan in the hallway, as well as Taylor, Wyatt and Jenson. My eyes settle on my Head of Security. "Taylor, make sure Ms. Lincoln is followed to her home and safely inside." _And I'll deal with all of you for however it occurred that Anastasia walked in to find me with Elena._

Both messages sent clearly, I turn around and go back into the suite. I close the door quietly.

Then I run like hell to the master bathroom.


	21. Chapter 21

Ok. Ok. Ok. Now what? Well? I rap my knuckles over the top of my head, then all around it. Maybe the pain will wake up something in there.

I don't want to turn off. I need to turn on. I am not living a television character's life. I am Anastasia Rose Steele. I am suffering under the delusion that I can have a sane and safe relationship with an unstable BDSM billionaire. I am, or at least for a minute was, contemplating how to kill his BDSM ex Domme / Sub business partner. Killing aside, I've gathered together a talented group of people to torture her.

So I'm an insane bitch. Check.

My Conscience smiles at me. _It's all right, Ana. You can step back from the precipice; you don't have to get payback any more than you already have._

She thinks about it, then goes on. _Christian Grey is an incredibly handsome man, terribly damaged. But he's trying to change, for you. At least enough so that you'll have an affair with him, an actual dating and kinky sex affair._

Now she lets me think on that before going on. _You have all the experience of a new stick of butter on a butter dish. He's just your first experience, the first knife to cut off a pat to butter his roll. You're attracted by his charisma and good looks, Ana. And that's all right. I never expected you to marry your first boy. Did you?_

My Inner Goddess, so beautiful and ready for adventure, joins in. For once, they are sitting peacefully together, identical twins, talking this out. _ We can learn so much. Things we want, secretly, and now that we know there are such things, to learn. He's already taught you what an orgasm feels like. And we certainly will never have to question if we want to be beaten and humiliated, will we? _

They share an understanding smile, with each other, and with me. _ Who else has made me sit up and notice him_, my Inner Goddess goes on. _ I've been here all along and he's the first so far. It's time for me, and you Ana, to have a boyfriend. And I am picking him._

I smack my head six more times and my SubConscience appears. She sits down on the other side of my Goddess. Triplets. For the first time, I look at myself and see someone, not beautiful, but pretty enough to catch a boy – no … I am pretty enough to catch a man's eyes. I've got good hair, thanks to ProActive I have a decently smooth complexion, and thanks to Ray picking up a part-time job when I was twelve, my teeth have been orthodontic straightened. I work hard at keeping thin and Carla passed on a decent sized pair of boobs.

My SubConscience finally weighs in. _ Have sex. Have kinky sex. No serious S&M or B&D. If you fall in love, more in love, I'll be here to fix your broken heart._

Christian bursts through the bathroom door. He's in that white hotel robe with a few smears of what looks like that fancy strawberry dessert I was planning to get a few bites of. Oh well. My mind is right. He's simply beautiful. Six feet two inches, not a bit of extra weight on that muscled, oh so perfectly muscled, form. His red hair is long and has a tendency to tumble around like he's had wildly passionate sex ten minutes ago. And those silver-river eyes are hypnotic when they aren't firing live rounds of fury and disgust. He's beautiful. What woman didn't stop and stare, think of how his mouth would feel on her? How his fingers could arouse her.

My tears are long past, at least a minute, and I let my Inner Goddess, the part of me not afraid to experience passion, take over. She gently lifts the corners of my mouth, pulls down my bottom lip so it pouts just slightly. "Enjoy an orgasm or two, Ana."

My Conscience is in the kitchen. She takes a cold stick of butter, silver wrapped, out of a refrigerator, takes a knife, and slices off a tablespoon. Then she winks. "Butter that roll, Ana."

My SubConscience examines both Christian's STD report and the Lunelle birth control pamphlet. "Go for it, Ana."

Christian is frozen in the doorway, staring at me like I've terrified him.

I smile at him with my one good and one blackened eye. But I hold up a hand to make him stay where he's at. "Will you make love to me? Like you should have when I told you it was my first time. Like you should have … instead of using that belt." My voice drops. I had set myself up for both of those, foolishly. This last time was all on Christian. "Can you make love to me, Christian Grey, like you should have after our first real date? Without hurting or humiliating me."

And he holds out his hand.


	22. Chapter 22

(Author's Note: My goodness! Let me respond just a little to everyone's comments. This is a Fifty Shades Trilogy FanFic – not a professional published story, so let's not expect gold from a pig's ear, shall we? Next, this is Ana – she's going to return to CG no matter what, she's going to cry, she's going to enjoy all those naughty orgasms, and frankly her thought processes make little sense (sorta like a baby Koala). Third, this is Christian Grey – the man blames everyone else for his being a spoiled, self-absorbed sadist – and yet is able to make a turnaround into LOVE. It's fun to write and supposed to be at least hopefully a bit of a fun read. I think we all like to hate Christian, pull out our hair at Ana, think of ways to torture Elena, and still pray for a HEA. Enjoy!)

He takes my hand leads me out of the bathroom, away from the bed and to a second bedroom. There, he turns to me in the darkness. "Stay right here," he orders, but the words are quiet, not ordering, not strict. Very different, I think.

He turns on the bathroom light, and then partially closes the door. Then he pulls the heavy curtains so they're closed. He takes off the robe, puts it over a chair near the walk in closet. Then he comes back to me.

"Anastasia, I have done nothing right with you, nothing that I haven't fucked up by the time I was finished." Christian's voice surrounds me. His hands, bare, warm, smooth, slide around my head and he frees my hair, luxuriates his fingers in it. "I can make love to you. The way you deserved when I took your virginity. The way I should have, instead of using a belt on your bare ass, so out of control that I left you injured." Now he cups his hands around my shoulders, brings me into his chest. His heat. He leans over me, curving, so his lips brush over my hair, his bare body a sensual temptation.

I no longer know where I can and can't touch him, so … I don't.

"I want to make love to you, to make you forget how afraid and ashamed I made you feel. For ruining what was our first real date. For ruining any belief you had in me." His lips were moving over my forehead, discovering my face slowly. While he's kissing me, he takes my hands that are curled into light fists at my sides, and brings them up to his shoulders. "I flinch when someone touches me. The cigarette scars, it's as if they still burn me. But a man and woman should be able to touch each other. All of each other, when they're making love." His lips brush mine, whisper soft, brushes that merge our breath. With my hands resting on his shoulders, he slides both of his around my waist, holding me firmly up against him.

I'll admit I'm still embarrassed about his … cock. I had never seen a real live one before Christian. Never touched one. Certainly never had my hands, mouth, face, boobs, body on one, touching one. But he's so … free. I guess after you've had a thousand BDSM experiences, no holds barred contractual relationships, and all those signed NDA bar or club pickups – I guess after that you don't see your private areas as anything different from the hair on your head.

I literally can do nothing wrong. That's rather reassuring. My fingers play tentatively over his shoulders. All the muscles there. He murmurs against my mouth, a sound of encouragement. In return, I lift my arms up as he pulls my t-shirt off.

I don't understand why he likes to keep my bra on. He just either pulls the cups up or pushes them down. Maybe it's appreciation for the material? I'm glad I wore the white satin / polyester mix. This time he's pulled the cups down, and leans back to admire what I've got on display.

"You're beautiful, Anastasia. Soft, silky. I love how big you are, but not too big. Perfect. You fill my hands just right." He demonstrates, his palms tickling my peaking nipples in little circles.

His mouth brushes mine again. Silky, soft, fitting over mine in a tempting taste. He's seducing me. He does that so very, very well. And I want him too. It feels delicious. He is delicious. Christian Grey is a delicious meal that I intend to eat. I arch forward into his hands and get a squeeze in response. I am wet like a washrag in a bathtub.

His mouth moved over my jaw, ear to ear. Hot breath seeming to heat my body. I feel the hair down my back. His hands now squeezing my breasts rhythmically, squeezing, circling those palms. My nipples are beginning to ache. They want more. Something, anything more. "Christian." It's a whine. I do a really good whine when I want something.

"Oh, baby. I love my name on your lips." And he finally kisses me.


	23. Chapter 23

**Christian's Point of View**

Anastasia's lips are succulent. I cannot resist them. Her mouth is smaller than mine and I feel like a wolf eating his prey as I take that mouth. My tongue thrusts inside, dominating. I do a full sweep of the territory, then go about laying claim. This mouth is mine. No other man will ever stroke the soft flesh and ridges of her mouth. I lick at the insides of her cheeks, smiling to myself as she opens wider, tilting her head back over my arm. Her hair is like a living thing, brown liquid silk wrapping both my hands and forearms, falling toward the floor as I bend Anastasia backwards.

She stiffens slightly and I immediately realize she's related the arched position to when I bound her into a reverse shrimp knot before the pee humiliation. I straighten, lightly sucking at her tongue and feel her relax. Anastasia has no way to know what I am going to do with her; hell, I don't know. I've always planned out my scenarios and none of them included more than brutalizing and enough seduction to convince the Sub to go farther, experience more of the painful pleasure I so like to deal out.

Fuck, I spent hours reading and watching vanilla porn under the titles "romantic" and "love", so I can do this. I release her mouth, she's about out of air and I need to teach her how to breathe through her nose. I love using ball gags, open mouth and bit gags, but a newbie can easily turn fearful and choke for air, so practice makes perfect.

Focus, Grey! Anastasia is not a new Submissive. I give her some time; first ordering her to toe off her sneakers, then keeping her up on those pretty painted pink toes, holding her supple slender waist while I link a chain of kisses around her neck. Her hair is both a blessing and a curse. Well, this manner of sex, I mean love making, is. I have my Subs braid their hair so I can use it as a control and it is out of the way of my instruments. Hair easily tangles in a discipline tool and I'm not interested in a woman screaming because I yanked a patch of her hair out. Now, I worry that one of us, and I know it will be me, will end up lying on Anastasia' hair and cause her pain. This time is not about hurting … no either of us.

OK, I can fix this. I undo the hooks in Anastasia's cheap bra, ease it off her slender arms. She has perfect breasts, and I tell her again. Words like flawless, wonderful, completely fucking awesome. She stays on her toes like a very good girl, her fingers on my shoulders helping her balance, and I wrap her bra around her hair like a ribbon, reattach the hooks. Problem solved.

She stumbles a tiny bit and I bend so I can slide my forearm under her pert ass in cheap jeans – I order myself to quit complaining about her clothes as I'll dress her in only the finest items once she's mine once more – and lift her against me. But I believe I've found something that can be very fun to play at some time in the future. Standing on tiptoes is a delicious way to allow a Sub – shit!

Can I really do this? Flynn has been telling me that my mind is focused on BDSM and needs retrained. Apparently he's really, really, right. But I can change. How much, is my question.

"Christian?"

Her murmur wakes me and I realize that, unlike ever before, I have frozen. And I don't know if this is fear or simple uncertainty, or a mixture of both. But now isn't the time for in-depth psyche evaluation. I need to make the deal appealing, bring Anastasia back to the table, and iron out this mess I created. "Baby, before this goes any further, I want you to know that I love you. I'm going to make love to you, make you mine. Do you understand?" I hold her away from me, feet still off the floor, and stare into her eyes with the limited light from the half closed bathroom door.

Instead of happiness and adulation, I'm a fucking billionaire and I know this face is wanted by every straight woman who sees me, she blinks. Then her eyes narrow. I really don't want to hear what's coming out of her mouth next. I'm not that jackass stupid. Just jackass stupid enough not to follow through on making love to Anastasia like she just asked. And this is why Doms and Subs don't talk during scenes … Jesus Christ, Grey! Let it go!

"Christian, I just walked in on you and a woman older than Grace, probably old enough to be my grandmother. I decided not to address the fact that during what is supposed to be a romantic weekend away for us, you had your hand on her … her pussy!" Anastasia can barely get the word out. I'm still holding her in mid-air and she's spitting at me like a kitten. Which gives me an idea …

I tune back in. "You showed me what it felt like to come, and I'd like to experience it again," she's shouting. "But if you can't supply what I demand, I guess I can find another interested party. Via that goddamn troll bitch!"

What? What! … WHAT*&^&*&^%!


	24. Chapter 24

(Author's Note: The good, the bad, the ugly … It does help me improve my writing, characterization, story-line, et al when you give critiques I can use. So thank you!)

**Christian's Point of View**

There is a God. It's a man, not a woman. Because God, the man, is the one who intervenes and allows me to gently carry Anastasia over to the bed and lay her down. A female divine power would have had Anastasia kicking me in the balls.

I place one hand flat on her chest. It about covers her from my fingertips against her neck to the heel of my hand under her fantastic tits, and holds her shoulders and back down to the bed. It's not a completely immobilizing hold, just enough to get her attention. Which I've got.

I've got a temper. I have since I was a kid. I would throw myself at whomever or whatever had frightened or frustrated me and beat the living shit out of it. In response, I spent my ninth year drugged into a zombie-like state. Grace made them stop the drugs after the year's end and I learned to keep it just to the verbal and breakable objects. Well, mostly.

But I have learned recently that allowing myself the luxury of screaming, throwing and breaking items is upsetting to this small being who cries over dead sea creatures and likes to read fiction, which overall is a complete waste of time when there's business to be done. So I engage my phenomenal self-control and query, **"WHAT?!"**

She smacks at my hand, tries to move it by using both hands on my wrist. I outweigh her by a hundred pounds. I may have let my workouts slide some, but a half dozen years of heavy duty training doesn't slip away in a month. Does she think I'm going somewhere? Besides, if she really wanted up, she'd be using her legs to do more than squirm. Or is that a point of interest.

Keeping my hand firmly planted, I lean up and place my mouth near hers, right at the corner of those sweet lips. Her whole body stills, her chest doesn't even move with breath or heartbeat. Then she moves her head just enough to let our lips glide together.

Fuck fury. I am making love to Anastasia. I pull her up and wrap my hands around her face, gentling my hold while I worry my tongue around the outside of her lips. She holds onto her anger for all of five seconds, and then her arms lock around my neck, her own hands diving into my hair. She likes to pull and twist and wrap those pretty fingers through my hair until I'm mad with the sweet feel that I never experienced before her. And now that's she's engaged, I return to sucking on her lips. Slowly. I don't know if I'm coaching myself, but I slow everything down to a bare crawl. One MPH, baby.

My Anastasia responds to slow, wet kisses. Her fingernails lightly scrape my scalp, making little patterns, and she presses those soft globes with the sweet candy centers to my chest. But I'm on track now. I don't ravish her. Instead, I slide my fingers slowly over her ears, playing, stroking, then down her neck. Her neck is glorious, long and trim, just right for a collar. Black, with titanium studs. Nothing but the best for my little Sub – shit!

I finger her collarbone – shit!

I move on to her shoulders, playing lightly over the rotator cuffs – shit!

Flynn is so right. All I can process is words related to BDSM.

But I refuse to panic and freeze up again. Instead, I switch to nipping her lips, which gets me her firm breasts squashed against what used to be a serious STAY AWAY zone. Now I see what all the fuss is about when it comes to simple sex. Her breasts against my naked chest, her nipples pointing into my skin and begging for attention … it's hot. I nip, little bites, then suck the hurt, laving it with my tongue, until I know her lips are feeling slightly swollen.

My hands have eased to the safe zone of her ribcage, my thumbs under her breasts stroking that hidden erogenous stretch of sweet flesh from under her arm pit to the focal point between her breasts. She's smooth and warm, impossible to resist. So I leave that mouth with its wet heat and pull Anastasia to her knees so I can feast on her breasts. Just so she knows I am in charge, I give both pointed tips a sharp nip – Right nip Left nip, and my balls lift as she yips, jerks back, then crushes my head into her bounty.

I kiss my way around each of her tits. There's no hurry, and Anastasia is loving it. She's arched back over my arms, offering herself. It's all so new and different. She's firm and I recognize the difference that youth offers. My Subs have been twenty-five to thirty-five, most falling at the thirty and over range. To me, they had offered the benefit of more emotional maturity and often professional confidence both as trained Submissives and in their outside lives. Which meant they knew to leave me the hell alone instead of playing "let's fall in love". Seven of them had breast implants. None of their breasts could compare to Anastasia's perfection. And frankly, other than sucking hard on their nipples, using tweezer and clover clamps, tying their tits up until they were purple, slapping and whipping them until they were red, teasing, squeezing, pinching, chilling, licking and pulling them … I hadn't really enjoyed breasts since I was probably fucking eighteen.

"Baby, I need to turn on the light. Is that ok?" I have to see her again, enjoy the sight as much as the sensation. Lifting my head, I wait for her approval. She mumbles something about "royalty" and "daylight", and then after I carefully lay her back on the bed, she begins to unfasten her jeans. I'm going to take that as a yes, and I turn on the bed table lamp. It only takes a few seconds, but when I look back, her big blue eyes are fixed on my face. They're beautiful, like a bed of velvet catching the light and shining. I smile; it's involuntary, because even after screaming at me she wants an orgasm, I swear she's blushing to beat all.

For no reason I can think of, her hands sweep up from where she's gotten her zipper down and she covers her breasts. I shake my head and tell her no. Now she's definitely earned having her wrists tied. Forget my earlier bullshit about touching each other. This is education. I look around, spy the dirty white robe I tossed on a chair. It has a lengthy white cotton belt. Perfect. I order Anastasia to stay on the bed, no point in there being any confusion, and get it. She very nicely holds out her hands, wrists together, as I come back to the bed. If I hadn't fucked things up to begin with, I'd have had the perfect Submiss – shit!

Now I have to start over again. My balls are so blue they probably glow neon. My steel rod is weeping, begging to be placed inside Anastasia's tight moist canal. Give it up, boy. If you want plenty of fuck action in the future, we do it right this time.

The lecture to my cock over, I pull Anastasia back up to her knees and start with the deep, slow, sucking, tongue-stroking, devouring kisses. Once she's in swoon status – I'm really getting good at this – I start binding her wrists in the Double-Rope Bondage Style. Fold, Wrap, Turn, & Cinch: Fold (double) the rope at the center, because doubled rope wraps more evenly and comfortably. The folded point is called the Lark's Head. Wrap once, bring both ends through the Lark's Head, and reverse direction to continue wrapping. Stop when you only have enough left for about one more wrap. Turn both ends perpendicular and pull them through the Lark's Head. Separate the ends (one heads North, the other heads South); wrap them at a right angle from the original wrapping. This cross-wrapping is called the cinch. Stop cinch-wrapping when you're almost out of rope. Bring the ends together and tie a square knot.

And now I have Anastasia's beautiful wrists bound. It takes barely a moment to scoop her up, position her with those shapely toned arms above her head, and then lay her back down on the mattress with her bonds pierced by one of the strong headboard iron pinions. My baby isn't going anywhere now. "Anastasia, you don't need a safe word. Because I'm making love to you. But if you get worried, or don't feel right, then you use Yellow or Red. Do you understand?" There's a tremendous difference between safe words and saying "No" "Don't" "Stop" and other phrases. That's why safe words were developed. Those words are important and need to be obeyed in any non BDSM context. And while this isn't a scene and Anastasia isn't my Sub, I'm indoctrinated to respond best to safe words.

I'm reassured when those long lashes flutter a few times, and she peeks up at me, biting her lip, blushing like a fire hydrant, tugging at her wrists and all around just turning me on like a stallion at a breeding farm. "Christian, this really turns me on," she whispers, squeezing her eyes shut and wriggling more. "It feels naughty."

"It will get worse. I promise." I haven't heard that word, naughty, whispered in a husky '_please take me voice'_ before. I can't get any harder and my cock simply gives a little burst and covers my helmet head with ejaculate. Fucking mini pre-orgasm. That's all right. Takes a bit off the steam.

I'm in heaven with her breasts. Once I've made the first rounds with my tongue, I focus on Anastasia's nipples. They are a gorgeous tan and pink. The areolas are a marvelous brown right around the outside, then lighten until the inside is a lovely pink. Her nipples peak and turn candy apple red with several minutes of hard sucking. I play with them, blowing, nibbling, then more long tongue-wrapping, tongue-lashing, all while I caress her dampening globes. When she whimpers from the arousing pain, I ease off and use my lips to worship every inch of her torso. Then, unable to resist, I suckle her once more, drawing pleasure for both of us.

I look up … and Anastasia's yawning. Are you kidding me? The light's on, so I look around for a clock. It's going on five in the morning. Maybe I've been at this longer than I thought. And my little eight to ten hour a night sleeper is way beyond tired.

Come to think of it, this doesn't have to be a marathon. And Anastasia's shoulders have got to be stiff by now. Hell. I pick her up and help her free her wrists from the bedframe, and then carefully guide them back over her head. "Baby, you did so well. You know I love all those sweet noises. Next time we'll use some oils that will feel good. How does that sound?" I keep my voice soft and encouraging as I untie her hands, then massage her shoulders, neck, and chest, then down her arms. Her eyes are dark, slumberous, and she watches me. I have never cared to have a woman's eyes on me, and now I would give away fortunes for Anastasia's downy gaze feathering over my features.

"Christian?" She has a voice like warm chocolate cake.

"Yeah, baby?" I am kissing each of her fingers as I massage both her wrists. The marks from the robe belt haven't begun to fade yet. I need to have her wear gloves next time. Satin, black, made just for her, custom fingerless long Opera Gloves that run all the way up her willowy limbs. There's a place I've heard of in Soho that will hand sew gloves to fit. Maybe some sapphire chips into heart designs on the inside arms?

"So … I'm not getting an orgasm?"


	25. Chapter 25

Christian has been carrying me around since I woke up after one o'clock. I was having fits and a half about us getting out of here before they charge him for an extra day, but he tells me we're just waiting for the Presidential Suite to open up. So apparently we are staying here at the Fairmont another night.

Suits me.

I have now had seven orgasms. Christian counted. I was too out of my mind to count. Who counts? Unless there is some scoreboard I don't know about. Damn. More Internet work. By now I should have just bought one of those online memberships so I can ask as many questions as I want. I still may need to.

I am bruised along my inner thighs. But for once, _THANK GOD!_ scream my inner threesome, it is not due to abuse, but use. And I definitely used my thigh muscles to hold onto Christian's hips as he pummeled himself inside of me. During an intimate shower where we gently washed each other with flannel cloths, he discovered the discolorment and I thought he was going to lose it. His face went white, then his neck muscles and jaw went tight, like he'd lost all the oxygen in his body. I've seen him revving up, but this was different. I managed to refocus his attention and with a lot of kissing – my lips are swollen and sensitive - I managed to convince him that this time everything seems just normal.

I have just finished dressing in the simple yellow classic A-line sundress from Kate's closet when Christian receives the call that the Presidential Suite, known as The Premier Cascade Suite in the hotel, is ready for us. At Christian's insistence, leaving whoever to pack up the few items we have, I enjoy his taking my left hand and leading me to the elevators where the Manager waits with a formal and impassive expression to show us to the room.

He uses a numeric keypad outside the first set of double doors and begins his patter. "The Premier Cascade Suite is the signature suite at The Fairmont Olympic Hotel, Seattle. This premium luxury suite offers three connecting suites, each has two bedrooms, each offering a King bed and large picture windows overlooking Seattle's financial center. The master bedroom features a canopied King bed and marble master bathroom with jetted tub. The spacious parlor has special touches such as a decorative fireplace, large picture windows and traditional American antiques. The Premier Cascade Suite can accommodate a reception of up to 100 guests and has 2 separate guest bathrooms in each section. The dining room can comfortably accommodate up to 12 guests ..."

Christian gives a nod to Taylor and Sawyer and the hotel manager, obviously wanting to impress Christian and show us the other attached suites, is politely thrown out. I gaze around, not quite so impressed suddenly. Christian, being Christian, takes in my expression and clutches me to him. I have got to get him to ease up. I offer him a reassuring smile and stroke his cheek, freshly shaven. "You smell delicious," I offer.

He ignores that and glares down at me. "What's wrong?" It's a demand, just on the outer side of a snarl.

He's cute, which is a few steps down for Christian, when he snarls. Those lips twisting are actually kinda funny. But to answer his question … "The carpet." I look down to the floor with its red and grey checked pattern. I have to lean back a little because there's no room between our bodies, so he gets that I'm checking out the floor, not his impressive cock that's hardened up between us. "It's sorta worn. Does that mean it's old?"

He blinks, then looks down. His head tilts just slightly and that long red hair just falls down around his shoulders. It's still a little damp and beside his aftershave I can smell the shampoo he used. I like his personal brand better, or I'm just used to how he smells from what he uses at Escala. The reminder of Christian's home, what is there, what was done to me there, makes me jerk back to reality right quick.

"It's called vintage distressed. You think it looks worn?" His eyes return to me, a frown between those red eyebrows.

Great, now I sound like the backwoods country bumpkin I am. I look down at the carpeting. They can call it what they like, it looks like those 100 people have stomped around at their reception with heavy boots. "Yes. And frankly, it's not very soft. I mean, what if we want to do it on the floor here in front of the fire? Carpet burns aside, I expect something a little soft on my knees."

That's caught his attention. Those kissable lips twitch. His voice comes out in that low, threatening sexual rumble. It's a turn on and I realize, abruptly, that it no longer scares the shit outta me. It's a relief. Really. "Your knees, Anastasia? Are you planning on being on your knees for me, with me behind you?" Large hands curl around my butt and begin to rub, slowly, firmly.

Dear God, I am going to combust! My Inner Goddess is swooning with delight. "Wait," I protest as Christian's hands are pulling the skirt of my dress up. He freezes and I swear he's turned to marble. My eyes hold his and I try to project love – my Conscience uses a rolled up room service menu to beat the shit outta my brains for that action – as I try to reassure Christian that I'm not saying no. "I want to talk about a …" I am blushing now. "A scene," I whisper. No way had he heard me.

But he's been watching my lips carefully. Now those eyes are smelting silver, bubbling. The hands on my rear portion clench and he lifts me up his body. I can feel his cock, thick, hard, unyielding, against my stomach, then slowly over my Venus mons and then against my thighs as he lifts me to eye level. My hands move to his shoulders, then I give up and circle his neck with my arms.

"Miss Steele, my little honeycomb, are you trying to suggest something?" He's thrilled, it's there in his voice.

I've done a doctoral course in what's coming next. Christian needs retrained into something less violent when it comes to bedroom games. Or we don't have a chance. Wearing her doctoral garb of grey slim-line suit with ruffled lavender blouse, smart low-heeled sandals, hair in a chignon near the nape, my Conscience is in her therapist chair behind a desk. Now this is a whole new look for her. Normally she's in her tree looking judgmental. But Dr. Ana is now in session.

"Maybe not what you think," I begin, nuzzling at his neck with my nose, like he does with me. "I want to talk about maybe something different?" I pull back so he can see my face, lower my lashes, and watch him tentatively. Just for fun I bite my bottom lip and lick at the captive.

"Jesus Christ," he swears hoarsely. I hit the mismatched sofa and he's on top of me, mouth attacking mine. I was rather scared at the sudden backwards drop and I've got my arms back tight around his neck. Our teeth gnash together and I am learning now to go limp and pliable under Christian when he attacks like this. I'm also learning not to wrap my legs around his. At least, not immediately, although I guess it's instinctive to do so. Now, I run the toe of my simple strappy sandal up his calf. It's my only available foot as my other leg is trapped under Christian's weight.

His lips are gentling on mine now, his tongue beginning to play instead of dominate. Now we're getting somewhere. My Conscience has my Inner Goddess tied to the classic psychiatry couch with duct tape. I admire her wrapping – _she must be taking notes from Christian_. I stroke his hair, his shoulders. Christian's muscles, his very skin under his thin white linen shirt, shiver when I touch his back. It's instinctive and should have been addressed, once more, by Grace when he was a child. Or one of the three million psychiatrists and psychologists Christian has told me he had. I lost count after probably twenty. How did Grace bathe him? Teach him to dress? Maybe someday I can ask her in a non-threatening way. You know, between the pleasanter questions of _How could you let his temper continue so out of control?_ and _Did you ever once discipline him – other than sending him next door to the local pedophile?_

But for now, he's reading my signals that shoving my skirt up, ripping a pair of what I'm sure are Kate's panties off me, and, um, _doing_ my sore kitty, isn't immediately what I want. So the dark and deep lip limbo begins to ease into soft, sweet smooches. I like those. Finally he rests his hot face in my neck and I begin to stroke his back once more. Immediately Christian stiffens, but I keep it up, light and soothing. It may take time, but he has to learn to accept my touch.

"So here's my question," I begin, putting my lips to his hair. I really miss how his hair smells with his own shampoo. And it hits me that I need to tell him these things. Over the past three weeks Christian has made an ongoing effort to compliment me, tell me what he likes about me. And yes, it's terribly embarrassing to hear that my, um, kitty smells delicious to him, but to Christian it's a compliment. So get with the program, my Conscience whispers. "How long are you going to be here? At the hotel," I clarify. Then add, "And that's not my actual question."

Christian moves so his elbows are on the thick couch cushions and looks down at me, amused. His eyes have calmed to a lovely dove grey. Involuntarily, my eyes smile into his. He has such pretty eyes. "We have a limited number of questions today?"

Well now he's just walked into it. I widen my eyes. "It's Sunday. Sundays, you only get six questions. So that's like your fifth one right there." I give him an 'everybody knows this rule' look. His expression, trying to act like of course he knows this, is priceless. Unless he's scamming me and knows there's no such thing. "Just answer the question, Mr. Grey."

"I'm not sure. I want us to have some place together that's not involving Elliot potentially barging in while I'm fucking you."

I ignore that and bat my eyelashes a few times. "It's just that," I shrug, "I like how you smell with your soap and shampoo at your house. Maybe Taylor could bring some back here for you."

He stares at me. His eyes tell me he is indeed complimented. And still amused. "So you dislike the carpeting and the shampoo and soap here. Anything else, Miss Steele?"

I turn my head, crane my neck, obviously taking a second look around. "In my lower class world the chairs and couches match. As in the same upholstery," I mention. There is not one piece of furniture in this room that matches. Maybe they complement each other, but they aren't the same. "And that's your sixth question, so no more for today." I smirk.

Christian leans down and kisses me. I really like these sweet kisses. Mindful of my little lecture, I twine my fingers around several swatches of his hair and announce, "I could be happy with more of those kisses." Then I get to spend time humming with pleasure as he responds.

After a while I am limp and utterly content. This might have been the award winning weekend from hell, but it's turned out at the end to be nice. "So … you mentioned that, before me and now," I emphasize this part and see the dread cross Christian's face, "you would create a scene in your head, then go over all the details. That you enjoyed that."

He sits up, watching my face, very wary. "Yes." He swallows.

Still lying flat on my back, I tip my head slightly, raise my hand and stroke his thigh. It's hard. Funny, I am beginning to know his body, just a little bit, but I still can't relate Ana Steele as having a lover with thighs of iron. It makes me smile and Christian seems to relax. Now, on to my next level of attack.

"So if I, or we, were to plan a scene out, would that appeal to you?"

He quickly shakes his head, frowning down at me. "Absolutely not. Anastasia, the point of a scene for me is to be in charge. Whether you're my Submissive or my wi – girlfriend," he coughs. "Either way, I want to be in charge of you, and that means a scene isn't familiar or … comfortable," he finishes, breaking eye contact and looking at the carpet.

I squiggle around and finally get to the point where I can get off the couch. And immediately fall flat on my face – my poor bruised eye protests – because one of the sandals catches on the vintage carpeting. Christian goes into shouting mode as he pounces on me. This must have been alarming to Taylor, because he and Sawyer burst through a set of doors behind the dining area, guns drawn and looking for trouble. What they get is Christian picking me up off the floor.

Sawyer rolls his eyes (so it's ok for men to do it, my Conscience notes nastily) as he knows my unlimited innate grace, holsters his weapon and heads back through the doors. Taylor does some eye communication with Christian, then follows him. "What's through there," I ask.

Christian has set me on a chair and is taking off the shoes he is cursing. So does this mean we're not going out? Jeez, this weekend getaway thing isn't what they make it seem like on TV. "Staff quarters," he answers shortly.

I nod. "So let's get back to my idea for a scene," I suggest, and get his instant attention. It works for me, him down on his knees in front of me. I look across the room. There's a desk by one of the long windows. It looks sturdy enough. "If I was dressed up. Like in a school uniform." I'm watching Christian closely. His amused game face is firmly on, but I'm not going to let it put me off. One of us has to start getting him out of this mess his pedophile put him in, and if a few dozen psychiatrists couldn't get it done, then maybe one English Lit Major and her primly dressed Conscience could.

I twirl his hair in little finger whorls, grimacing like it's painful to describe one of the classic fantasies. Heck Britney Spears had a video of it. So who am I to be embarrassed. "I'd guess I could get a uniform around here." Hint, you buy it because your, like, a billionaire? "Those clunky shoes, white socks, blue and black checked skirt, white blouse, a tie with the monogram or design for the school." I've got him. I can see it in the way his eyes have gone hot again as I slowly describe what I'd wear dressed up as a high school prep girl. He's trying to keep that amused disdainful smirk on his face, but it's beginning to slip, slip, slip.

I unbutton two of his shirt buttons, touch his chest tentatively. He's concentrating enough on the vision of me I'm weaving that he forgets to do more than shudder. Not even a wince. Hell, this game may help with more than his desire to beat me black and blue and actually decrease his fear of touch, too. "So I was thinking. You know, for a scene? You could be my teacher. Mr. …" I wait expectantly. If he wants Mr. Grey, that's fine. But it kind of gives me the mental image of his dad, who I've only met twice, or Elliot.

He catches on fast, my business genius. "Christian," he finally suggests, still going for amused. "Master Christian."

_Oh, very good_, my Conscience mutters. _ He gets the Master part in, doesn't he? _I ignore that. "Master Christian," my Inner Goddess helps me breathe out in just the right quality of innocence and teacher's hot pet. "If I was wearing this uniform, how would I have my hair?" I stroke his lips with an index finger. Soft, sensual.

"A ponytail. Braided. High on the back of your head," Christian gets out between holding my finger and kissing it. He's got one hand gripped hard around my ankle, the other holding my hand to his mouth. He's lost focus on my face and is fixated currently on my breasts. Men.

That's all right. My doctor of scene creation continues. "High school girls have been known to overdo and underdo their makeup. Which do you think I would be? Dressed in my pretty school uniform, my hair braided in a ponytail." I think he's beginning to get into it. I hope so. Christian needs to be fully desirous of this so when he finds out it doesn't include beating the shit out of me he'll still want to play.

Eyes still on my breasts covered by a nice white lacy bra that matches the panties I stole from Kate's dry cleaning basket, which is in turn covered by the yellow dress, Christian answers. "Heavy eye shadow. Blue. It brings out your eyes. Too much eye liner. No fake eyelashes. You don't need them. No blush. Lipstick … hmm. A gloss. Pink. Flavored. Watermelon."

Great. Now I have to search all over Seattle for watermelon lip gloss. But perseverance is a sign of … well, me. "You'd have to be surprised at what color panties I'm wearing. Now, let's go over what you'd be wearing. If I was a school girl getting in trouble with her teacher." I bite my lip again, licking it, releasing, then licking my top lip again.

Christian rips the dress off of me by tearing it up the middle. Kate's delicates are trash. I'm pretty sure there's some heavy moaning going on as his hands scrub all over me while his mouth takes mine in punishment for his loss of control. This time my hands wander south and I use both of them around his impressive girth, stroking up and down. Maybe I can find a watermelon flavored lube to suck on. A girl could spend a lot of time going down on Christian. The man is huge.

He tests to see if I'm wet. I'm sorry, but I can see both how beating his Subs could make them wet or dry. But thankfully, we're talking straight sex here, so I'm wet as an ocean. He growls out several prayers of thanks – did Grace raise him Catholic or Protestant? – then rolls away from me to stand and strip at racecar speed. Then – as God is my witness – he bends down, grabs both my ankles, flips me over, kneels, and takes me like I'm a wheelbarrow. I'm on my forearms, lifted right up off the worn old carpet someone's convinced a bunch of rich people is actually stylish, with Christian giving me his all with his hands holding me up by my thighs.

OK, I'm one flexible girl. And so much for straight vanilla. Or is this vanilla? I'm not tied up. Hey, it may be a first. Of course, we're not done yet … Dear Lord, thank you, thank YOU, THANK YOU!

Christian is filling me and from this position I am getting a lot of action from his balls coming up right under my sensitive clit with every thrust. It takes all of like ten thrusts for me to start biting the carpet as I come. Now I see why the carpet's got chewed marks. It's not from heavy shoes. It's from all the women biting it in orgasmic release.

After I get my senses back, I take some time to consider this position. Christian is still pounding away. I wish I could see his face, but I don't want to risk spraining my neck. The sheer strength needed for him to hold my weight, fuck me like a jackhammer, and keep it up is damn impressive. I need to meet his trainer, go watch him at the gym. I've heard other girls talk about that and it seemed the stupidest thing, and a huge waste of time. But now I'm thinking it would be nice to see Christian workout, how he got so strong and well defined.

I gasp as he pulls out and still holding my thighs, Christian stands up. I'm on my hands now and he juggles me around until I understand that I need to try and hook my ankles over the shoulders I can't see but I was just mentally sculpting. Once I've got some kind of minimal hold, more of a touch, there, he thrusts back into me.

Time out is over and he gets a firm hold on my hips and begins to thrust. It's a plunging movement, hard digs with that impressive cock, reaching inside me to find every soft wet slice of my … cunt. There, I said it. To myself. Now I need to say it to Christian. Or else I'll be too sore to walk, let alone sit in my chair at work tomorrow. "Fuck my cunt," I scream delicately.

He roars, I explode again, and we collapse to the out-of-date rug, gulping in air, sweating like horses that just ran a mile flat out. Christian is spooning me, both arms hard around me, his legs tangled with mine. I'm so wet everywhere that the carpet is now sticking to me. "I hate this carpet," I tell him, and realize I'm crying.

"Shh, baby. It's ok," Christian soothes me, his lips running over my temple. "Shh. Just reaction. You did so good," he praises me.

What the hell is he talking about? I swear to Christ this man makes no sense. But I'm tearful and begin to hiccup. Christian scoops me up and after a stop in the bathroom to run a warm wet washcloth between both our legs, and grab the box of tissues since I'm still bawling, he take me to bed.

At least it's large and comfortable. I don't know why I'm crying, other than I've been in a terrible car accident, a terrible house fire, the death of innocent sea life, and now nine orgasms. "What did I do that was good," I sob out. The bed sheets are soft and cool against my still wet skin. The sun's shining outside but the heavy window treatments are half closed. I've had nowhere near enough sleep recently. And way too much drama.

"Wheelbarrow positioning," Christian provides. This is how I knew what it was called. Before that, I thought it was just him being weird. Like normal. "I know it's hard on the woman."

"Oh, Christian. Could we not mention your three hundred thousand other women right now," I cry, going for another handful of tissues.

"Sorry," he mumbles. He gets up to adjust the room temperature at the wall control, then comes back and cuddles me under the covers. "I love you, Anastasia," he whispers. "I know you don't believe me. I wouldn't believe me if I were in your shoes. But I do love you." He pulls my wealth of sweat-damp hair from between us, cuddles me and with the gentleness of a mother to a child, croons some wordless melody to me. Probably from the Classical Era: Bach, Haydn, Clementi.

That helps me to wind down a little. We are both so lost. To emotion. To each other. To Christian's past and my inexperience. There are too many thoughts going through my head. I need to work with him on this scene idea, which is how this last sexual adventure all started. But maybe a nap would serve me better for the moment? And to the sound of his soft crooning in my ear, I fall asleep.


	26. Chapter 26

We wake up Monday morning in my bed at my apartment. I was suspicious when Christian didn't argue with me about going back to my place for the night. Especially when he announced he'd be sleeping there with me. I mean, why get that incredible hotel suite? Which I took pictures of with my cell phone's camera feature, by the way. Who would believe me, otherwise? Kate and Ethan grew up rich; they've been places like that all their lives. But me, Allison, Sharlie and Morgan are all working class stiffs from working class families – the Fairmont Olympic and its best suite where you can sleep eight large families comfortably and have everyone's family over for a party – now that's worth bragging about and showing a few snaps.

So anyway … Christian had no problem with trooping back to my place and sleeping innocently spooned up with me - after I finally told him I was on the sore side of things - throughout the night. He had asked – really quite nicely asked – that I stay the night there in fancy hotel land with him. But that meant yet another trip back to my place, and no I didn't want one of his security people doing it, to get my work clothes.

Kate was apparently with Elliot and Ethan had left a note saying he was off for a few days to see his folks, so we had the place to ourselves. Not counting the six security guys (Cottie was apparently the only female Taylor had on staff, at least that I'd met) who were keeping the mass of paparazzi at bay and probably starving to death because it was close to ten when we got to the apartment and I was almost asleep on my feet as my time clock struggled to win out over all the ups and downs of the past forty-eight hours - all of which meant that I didn't make them supper.

Christian woke me up with a gentle hand between my thighs. His mouth followed and I gasped in air as he made me feel very very good. I returned the favor by sliding my hands around his proud staff and wetting it with my mouth. He feels so smooth and hard against my lips. I take my time; Christian may arrive at work at six in the morning, but my day doesn't start until half past eight. There's plenty of time.

I kiss and lick, tease him gently with my teeth, my lips, my tongue. I will say that one of the few things I can think of that is a benefit to all his whoring … he doesn't just shoot off after a few sucks. Kate has had that happen like a half hundred times and we both are unimpressed – Kate with the reality and me with the telling. No, my man has some staying power. I explore the little hole in the center of his helmet with my tongue, tasting him. Christian goes wild, clenching his fists in my hair, lifting and lowering his hips like he's on a rollercoaster ride that's out of control. It does give me a bit of understanding into why he's always snapping at me to hold still when he's giving me oral pleasure; it's damn hard to get your best work done when the project's shooting around like a Mexican jumping bean. Exactly how does he expect me to get better at this if he won't hold still? But if I say something he might go all Dom, so I just give him some dirty talk while fondling his balls.

"Christian, baby, your cock is so big. I just melt every time I feel it. Knowing how many women would love your dick in their mouth, and they can't have it. It's mine. All mine." And I gobble him up. Christian's eyes hopefully roll into the back of his head as he shoots off a minute later.

All right, I need to work at my dirty talk. It wasn't exactly one of the things you read in recommended English Lit 101. But all in all, that took care of the morning fun and games.

I tell Christian how handsome he looks, and make appreciative noises over how he smells since someone got his shampoo, soap and aftershave into my small bathroom – I am assuming before we got back here, unless Christian put it in there after I fell asleep. Doesn't matter. What matters is that I need to remember that Christian has been grossly neglected when it comes to sincere, simple compliments. And I need to remember that, in the same boat, how big of a boost it is to the self-esteem to get that information. He stands straight and tall, walks with a long confident stride, but I'd like to think that he's doing it all just a bit more after I'm through with him.

Then, once he exits with Taylor and Wyatt, saying he's got an early meeting and can't wait on breakfast or coffee, I get to see an early morning gossip station flashing Christian leaving the apartment. They flash images of our weekend under the headliner _"Is He Trying to Keep Her or Kill Her?"_ Sawyer has arrived and he chokes over the coffee I hand him at that one. I have to admit the visual of me getting out of the SUV, jumping like a goat over the torn and twisted metal, is rather nasty. And while they thankfully don't have images of me at the B&B, what's left of the burned house is side-by-side with some snap of me from graduation. And then there's the beach party – lots of me running around looking a bit chunky and unbalanced. Christian's disguise is useless and they have long distance views of him, purposefully a little blurry because while they state clearly he's obviously disguised, they seem to not want a close up.

When I give Sawyer a suspicious glance and tentatively hold his plate with cream cheese stuffed waffles out of reach, he admits Taylor has been "negotiating" with the press to leave us alone. I give Sawyer his plate, make another each for Ryan, Bron and Katts, and think that if this is leaving us alone, what the hell would full out pursuit be? Do these people not have lives? I'm freaking twenty-one and want to have some fun. It's not a crime.

Well, if my Dad didn't know I was a slut before, now he does. I check the time. Seven-thirty. He's been up two hours. He wouldn't be watching a gossip channel, but the news today has precious little of interest, so they're featuring "The West Coast Billionaire Christian Grey" and mention me by name with the tag of "girl friend." Shit. I call Ray Steele. "Hi, Daddy."

"Did you use protection," he snaps out, all military.

"Yes, Sir," I respond, making my spine go stiff.

"What happens to girls who come home pregnant," he bellows like a drill sergeant.

"They get bed and board, not free babysitting," I repeat back like a grunt in training.

He sighs. "Just so long as you know. I love you, Ana. I'll be here." When he breaks your heart, is unsaid.

"Thanks, Daddy. I remember my way home." I'm really lucky to have you, is unsaid.

We hang up without saying goodbye. Some relationships are just like that, you know?

I check out Kate's closet. She's bought more clothes. I consider a deep blue nylon-like material dress. It is pleated sideways and should make a girl look like she's fifty pounds over her ideal body weight. Instead, it's rather slimming I decide as it slides over my body. It has minimal sleeves, mostly little rolls of material like spaghetti straps. It ends at my knees, which would be showing five inches of thigh on Kate. And I think it's just gorgeous. There's no tag to say who the designer is, even the red plastic bag is nameless. I make a mental note to ask Kate who it is, because if he or she is even remotely affordable, I wouldn't mind getting one of these of my own; I could see it paired up with a sweater, a jacket, even some nice leggings could give it a different look and extend my wardrobe. I add a pair of strappy sandals of brown leather after putting on my first pair of thigh-high hose for the day. I'm going through at least one pair a day – damn things snag too easy. I put my hair in a bun, center parted, add light make-up which partially covers my black eye, and some pretty blue stone earrings from Christian. He handed me a little Wal-Mart plastic bag with multiple plastic carded earrings in it this morning. See? He can be sweet without overdoing it when he tries.

I gather up my security detail and dutifully wait as they clear a path for me to the new dark blue SUV that I guess is to replace the crushed one from Friday. I send off a quick text to Christian as Sawyer points us toward Grey Publishing.

To: Sharp Dressed Man

From: ZZ Top Fan

Re: Diva Demands

If we're doing this, I want driven around in a different vehicle every day. Preferably snazzy with food stuffs. Gyro Truck, Ice Cream Truck, Enchilada Truck, Sno Cone Truck, Pizza Truck.

It didn't take him long to respond. I do admit that's one thing he does that makes me happy. He responds to my texts like they're important.

To: Legs

From: Also a ZZ Top fan

Re: Demands

We are definitely doing THIS, and I can provide anything you want. Do you want Sawyer dressed up like a clown on Sno Cone Truck day?

Seriously, Anastasia. Please take the Blackberry back. You could text so much easier on it.

I smile to myself. Barney and Welch have probably told him there's something drastically wrong with my cellphone and email account, given they're getting like a thousand messages bouncing around an hour. Allison has it automatically clearing itself every hour when we haven't sent anything to each other in coded texts or emails. Whoever she knows that is a computer or cell phone genius is really really a genius.

To: Sharp Dressed Man

From: 36-22-36

Re: Blackberry

I'm good with what I have. Thank you for the offer. You didn't mention if we are seeing each other tonight …

I meant to ask him about that before he left. But he kissed me at the door and I lost my marbles for a while after that.

To: Bad Girl

From: Sharp Dressed Man (Is that my designation?)

Re: Playin' It Cool

Unless you are willing to try to return to Escala once more, which I would very much like, I thought I would keep the suite at the Fairmont. I still have your wardrobe and Mrs. Jones could have it placed there by this afternoon.

I miss you already.

I sit there, the cellphone in my lap. Now here's something to think about. We've gone from all that incredible openness about contracts that spell out such unspoken concepts as "anal fisting", to unspoken (or untexted) reasons why I won't or can't return to his home and the fact that Christian still has a wardrobe he purchased for me when I was looking up what the hell anal fisting even was. Would somebody tell me who even does that shit?

Shaking myself back on track, I move through the crowd on the pavement and inside the GP building. Allison and Sharlie and I enjoy a few minutes chatting, then I'm off to the eighth floor and a quick chat with Morgan before my day begins. I sit down with my first manuscript and have a sip of my tea when Ryan coughs slightly. Now there's a first. I look at him and he's holding out his Blackberry to me.

"It's Mr. Grey, Miss Steele."

Frowning, I take the small electronic. "Christian? What's wrong?" Had he been in an accident? Revved up at work and had a heart attack? If I was his administrative assistant I'd have poisoned his coffee long ago. Maybe Andrea or Olivia had finally cracked under the pressure?

"You didn't respond to my text," Christian states. Well, it's actually an accusatory hiss. But "states" sounds nicer.

At least no one's killing him. Yet. "I was thinking," I explain calmly. Fight or flight, I remind myself. That's how Christian Grey responds to anything that's not all wrapped up tight and snug. And Christian usually lands on the fight side. "Do you think we could try a week together at the Fairmont?"

I swear to God, hands held to Heaven, I hear a "Yes!" that's like muffled by a hand over the receiver. It makes me smile and I feel well satisfied with my impulsive answer. Hell, impulsive describes my relationship with Christian Grey from the first. I quell my immediate desire to take back my offer, clenching my jaws together just in case my Conscience decides to try and jump in.

Christian has quickly composed himself. His voice is deep, smoky, and just maybe … pleased. "I think we could, indeed, try a week together at the Fairmont. I'll see you tonight, then?"

I do have one line to draw. "She won't ever again be in there with you alone, right?" Like I give a flying fuck if he thinks she's his only friend. You want my pussy, Mr. Grey, Elena Lincoln's out the fucking door. The Sheriff has spoken.

Christian, in probably the first time he's gotten the right words out when it comes to his bitch troll pedophile, immediately responds, "Never. Shall we eat in or out tonight?" He goes for casual distraction.

Works for me. "Out. Those damn food trucks don't pack enough to fill me up."

And he laughs.


	27. Chapter 27

For some reason, the other Super Heroes of Justice don't want to give up pursuing Lex Luther. Or whatever the bad guy's name is. They aren't willing to give up on revenge when it comes to the Bitch Troll. Especially after I share – fuck the NDA permanently – about her coming to the hotel and climbing into bed with Christian to beg for him to save her from the bank foreclosure.

Apparently I'm too forgiving. Well, duh. I mean, Christian beat my ass to a pulp, then made me pee myself, and I've finally managed to push all that aside to give him yet another chance. If only for a while. Until he does something jackass stupid. Which he will. It's inevitable. After all, this is Christian Grey I'm talking about.

But between irate secret emails, texts and notes in manuscripts, I finally give in and agree punishing Elena Lincoln should be a lifetime pursuit – or at least until we ALL get bored with it.

We meet for lunch, outside in the park across from GP. Sawyer is given a one hour notice, and tries to tell me no. But I'm a woman on a mission and frankly I've had my orgasms finally and I'm feeling pretty damn good. So fuck the paparazzi, fuck Christian and Taylor and all their security shit, and I'll eat out in public on a beautiful sunny day if I damn well want to.

Christian's on the phone two minutes later. He tries screaming first and I offer a firm "Yellow", which shuts him down. Then he tries negotiating. So I give it to him plain. "Christian, I'm done. I need to make my own mistakes here, and I don't buy that the paparazzi will actually eat me. So get your own work done, plan on taking me out to Kentucky Fried Chicken for dinner, and if you stop barking at me, we can discuss that school scene I was suggesting when we get back to the Fairmont." And I hang up on him.

Ryan … I think he busts something in his guts, he's laughing so hard. Sawyer's dealing with Christian screaming into his cell phone at him – and I refuse to take it when he tries to hand it off. Taylor's next on the phone – everyone's phone – as four more men the size of tractors show up in the next half hour. Since it's now Christian's business, Personnel trots up to check out just how cute these new guys are, and make sure I've signed my contract that says I have to do what I'm told. Or something to that extent. I explain, patiently, that since it's no secret that I'm sleeping with the boss, he can fire me himself in bed tonight. Personnel, eyes trained on muscles and bulges, says that's just fine. Then she spends the next ten minutes flirting with some guy I haven't even gotten his name yet.

At twelve-thirty we four troop across the street and find a bench by the water. The paps begin to land and gather. I consider feeding them like you do seagulls, but my Subconscious appears, wearing a diaper for significant reminder of what happened last time I played with paps, and I withhold from tossing out any popcorn. The four of us, Sharlie, Allison, Morgan and I, eat our packed lunches and ignore them. Sawyer, Ryan and the other men hold our rapt audience back a good twenty yards.

Which means they are way too busy to listen to us.

Morgan starts us off. "First, let me say those earrings are stellar," he announces after his first carton of chocolate milk. The man is addicted to chocolate. I wince – I probably helped with that. "Love knots. I'm guessing in the twenty-five range."

I take one out and look at it. They're pretty silver intertwined love knots with plenty of CZ stones. I pop it back in. "I don't think they look like they'd cost twenty-five dollars. More like ten?"

He blinks at me with those big blue eyes, the wind ruffling his perfectly cut brown hair. "Twenty-five thousand, Ana. Those are real diamonds."

I choke on my celery stick. Allison does the Heimlich maneuver and social media gets a great shot of me shooting a celery stick out of my mouth then gagging for air. By the time everyone is calmed back down (I think Ryan had an aneurysm), we're down to the last twenty minutes of our lunch hour. I'm pretty sure I put that Wal-Mart bag down … somewhere. Jesus, I hope the rest of those aren't real. Maybe Morgan's wrong, although I doubt it. The man knows his accessories.

That's ok; I'll get Christian Grey back. We're gonna eat junk food every night this week. That'll traumatize him but good, my food-obsessed Christian. Somehow I don't think he's had White Castle before. A few sliders and he'll find out how good the bidet works at the Fairmont more than ever before!

So we rush through what we know. Allison has gotten a weekend hickey and the details from her banker called in to her during morning break. Around eight-thirty this morning, Christian called the bank and he's rescuing Elena. But surprisingly, not like we'd figured. He's buying her out. Her name is going to be off all the papers for the even sum of forty million.

Well, well, well. Isn't that interesting? Christian's lawyers are handling it, but everything should be settled by Tuesday. Who said business ran slow?

Next piece of business. Sharlie has a friend who works at GEH. Apparently bitchzilla used to visit once a week. Nothing to do with their Thursday lunches. No, she stopped by for a quick coffee or something, behind closed doors, Mondays. I've got my suspicion that was when she checked with Christian on how his Submissives were doing. Follow-up on product satisfaction. So to speak.

Which reminds me … in our last ten minutes, I lay it all out on the table for my friends. If the bitch is going down, I want her knocked out. She wants Christian and she wants me away from him. So what if I get her to reveal her little plan for me to be a new Sub-in-Training, including that I have to leave Christian for a year while I learn to take my beatings with a smile? That would have to piss Christian off, wouldn't it? Enough for him to see the light about his pedophile?

Morgan says he'll talk with some people, get their input. I'm wondering if he means Ethan in some "I have a friend" way. In the meantime, we agree it's time to step back up to ruining Elena's day.

And Sharlie has a great idea. Apparently you can create a blog and ruin the hell out of a person, demeaning them from A to Z, and if you hide it well enough, no cyber whiz is going to be able to track you down. I have no idea how the hell it could be done, but considering that we've still got Welch and Barney facing thousands of emails and texts on my systems hourly, I'll just trust it can be done. Between my friends' contacts, I am guessing I could have a satellite in outer space dedicated to Elena Bitchtroll Lincoln.

Time's up. We all toss our lunch trash away and troop back to GP with the paparazzi trailing us yelling questions and taking vid and pics. They are nowhere near as bad as they first were, and I find that I can pretty much ignore their existence if I think of them like characters in a book. Not real.

I send Christian a text before getting back to work.

To: Sharp Dressed Man

From: Bad Girl (ZZ Top reference, don't think I've gone bad)

Re: Still hungry …

That was nowhere near bad. I didn't get raped, pillaged or eaten alive. All three of which may someday be a fantasy I ask you to help me with, depending on how we do with our scene.

I hit send, open my next manuscript and get to work.


	28. Chapter 28

During my next break, I get several things done. First, I check my text messages and pull up the one from Christian.

**To:** Legs

**From:** Sharp Dressed Man

**Re:** Don't Tease Me

_Baby, baby, I need you_

_I'll lay it on you with a straight shot_

_Baby, baby, I love you_

_I'll give it everything I got_

_I'm gonna try my best to hold you baby_

_Hold you in my arms_

_Tryin' my best to please you_

_Never ever tease you_

_Don't you go and break my heart_

_Don't burn me like a jet fuel_

_Baby just be cool_

_Don't go tearin' me apart_

_Baby, baby I want you_

_I know we're thinkin' 'bout the same thing_

_Lord have mercy_

_I need you, I can read you like a magazine_

_I'm gonna try my best to hold you baby_

_Hold you in my arms_

_Tryin' my best to please you_

_Never ever tease you_

_Don't you go and break my heart_

_Don't burn me like a jet fuel_

_Baby just be cool_

_Don't go tearin' me apart_

_You know what I'm talkin' 'bout_

_Because I'm givin' you the headlines_

_Baby, baby I love you_

_Let's get ready for the good times_

_I'm gonna try my best to hold you baby_

_Hold you in my arms_

_Tryin' my best to please you_

_Never ever tease you_

_Don't you go and break my heart_

_Don't burn me like a jet fuel_

_Baby just be cool_

_Don't go tearin' me apart_

I have to admit he can be amusing when he tries. The thought makes me smile. Maybe we could go to a comedy club some night this week. Christian needs to get out and do normal things, with normal people. He's a little older than me, Kate, Ethan, Morgan and the others, but it's not a huge deal. Emotionally he's like a freaking toddler. And in regard to business … probably he and Methuselah share a birth year or something. My point is, I drag myself back on track, Christian Grey is rather mind-numbing outside of bed if you're a twenty-one year old who isn't a business major, doesn't give much of a crap about classical music and composers, and has never traveled outside the country or more than twenty miles into Canada. Christian has read a lot of the books I love, but he's distanced himself emotionally from them and I guess until he does a re-read with a more open heart our discussions about the great writers will be rather dry. Since even discussing art still makes me flinch and nearly lose control of my guts, we need to find things to talk about. Comedy is usually a good thing. Right?

All this in mind, I send him a simple text that I am looking forward to seeing him tonight. It makes me smirk. That throw off from all the cutesy things I've been texting will puzzle him. Isn't that a woman's job? I had a feminist professor that used to say 'a puzzled man is a muzzled man.'

So thinking that, I call Kate and ask her what she thinks about a double date and going to the Comedy Underground Club, which has sent a flyer around the GP break rooms – illegal of course to advertise here but like there isn't twenty other flyers posted on the cabinets – and several people commented they thought they'd go. Kate says she'll ask Elliot, and if he's available tomorrow night seems like a great idea. If it's a go ahead with Kate and Elliot, I'm satisfied with a start to showing Christian what normal vanilla can be outside of the bedroom.

Next, I put on my big girl devious panties and place a call to Elena Lincoln. I'm rather surprised to be told that "Miz Lincoln is taking a break from the Esclava Salons. Could I help you?" by some woman with a ritzy accent but manages not to sound too snobby. I decline, send Morgan a note in a manuscript that if he could find the bitch's home or cell phone number, I can ask her for a meet.

Then it's back to work. God, I love this job!

**Barney's Point of View**

It's taken me a bit of time, one hell of a lot of typing in code and programming, but I finally got this fucker figured out. Someone has created not malware, but palware on the boss' girlfriend's electronics. I am sure it's done nothing but give her a headache since it started. Obviously having no idea about cell phones, computers, any other modern convenience – I hacked her transcripts and she didn't even take a computer science class in college! – I am certain Miss Steele will be grateful that I upload a corrective action program to her system.

She sure is pretty, although I like my fantasy girls to have a little more meat on their bones. Maybe not the sharpest pencil in the coffee cup. I mean, how much does it take before you guess something's wrong when you get ten thousand emails a day? Or maybe she knew something was wrong and didn't know who to call to fix it? I guess I could stop by and explain this issue and how she can just call me any time for help with her electronics. I'll shoot the boss an email, wait for his call screaming at me like he does everyone else, and offer to give her a line of bullshit about the need to use the topline Blackberry and Mac system he bought her.

I can talk geek like it's coming down from Mount Sinai, convince her it's necessary. Non-electronics people like Miss Steele are easy to guide toward what they need, whether they want it or not. And since Mr. Grey is obviously head over heels, she needs something he and Taylor can track her on 24/7.

I send Taylor the update.

**Taylor's Point of View**

I cannot believe they didn't mob her. Sawyer sent me vid. By the time they got Legs and her three friends safely back inside Grey Publishing, there were well over fifty of those bastard paps gathered like a fucking football team yelling for her attention and a comment.

But that was it.

I watched the vid, had Barney hack into the park's surveillance and watched those. Then I booked ass over from GEH to GP and met with the six guys there, having in-house security monitor Miss Steele while we gathered in a security office and went through the visuals and each of their assessments. Jensen used to be FBI and he points out the obvious. I saw it, I just couldn't believe it.

"She smiled at them," Samuel Jensen shrugs. "I saw it working with Laura Bush in the White House. The First Lady would give all those rabid press corp sons of bitches a smile that said she expected them to behave, and they did. Miss Steele has that same power." Then he shuts back up. It's the most I've heard him say in eight years.

Aw, just fuckin' great. The man goes all this time with professional Submissives, the most we got to worry about is when they fall in love with him and start going bat shit crazy when he dumps them. We spend our time on real threats, plenty of real threats, with only the occasional uprising from one of the ex Subs … and now this. She's uncontrollable. It's obvious as of right this minute. Or the minute that she informed Sawyer she was eating at the park with her friends.

No. No, no, no. No. It was right in my face the minute Anastasia Steele put Christian Grey, Master of the Universe, in time out. What's that BDSM phrase that drives Dominants nuts? Topping from the bottom. That's what she's doing on my ass, topping from the bottom. She's a fucking baby koala in a tree, lobbing grenades at the rest of us.

"Sawyer, the minute she gets done with work today, start training her in security defense partnership. I want her to respond to what we tell her to do, I don't care if a fleet of otters are being killed with machetes right in front of her. If that little girl is going to step up to the plate with paps, we're not stepping back with a black eye." Which she already has.

I do not get paid enough. No way, no how. God, I think I'm getting an ulcer.


	29. Chapter 29

**(Author's Note: Just for fun and to give you a 'cue', the text message headings are from ZZ Top song titles)**

Since SIP has become GP, there are a few changes. An email flicks up on my screen as the six o'clock hour approached. We can now make our own start times, within reason. This is a new policy which has the goal of allowing those employees with children to see their kids off to school or choose to be there when they get home. Or if you just aren't a morning person ... that's not one of the examples the memo gives.

The latter is me, but I didn't grow up with Ray Steele as my Dad for nothing. You get yourself up out of bed, get that bed made, and get to work early. So my new preference after confirming that Morgan, Sharlie and Allison and I will all still lunch together, is going to be working from 7:30 to 4:30. This gives me a nice long slot of time after I get done with work to actually live a little before I fall into bed. The thought of Christian comes with the thought of bed, and living a normal life now that I'm out of college; both are appealing.

I honestly don't know what Christian's hours are. Well, hell. I promised myself that I wouldn't call him at work – that fucking Submissive contract had been very specific that he wanted no contact by his women outside of Escala. I guess texting is ok.

/

**To: Sharp Dressed Man**

**From: Piece**

**Re: What is …**

**Your usual work schedule?**

**/**

I don't go with anything cute once more because I honestly can't come up with anything. Not that many English Literature books that have romantic or ditzy lines about work schedules. If I could think of even one, I'd use it. He doesn't respond immediately, so I send Personnel my tentative 7:30am response and shut down my work area.

As we get out of the elevator on the Lobby / Main floor, Sawyer informs me we are going to start my security defense partnership training. Surprise makes me stop in my tracks as we are heading toward the front desk and Allison. Well, I try to stop. The exiting herds are moving and I go head first over a large planter – I think it's the size of a wildebeast, and those damn things move around, too. To his credit Sawyer is able to catch the back of my dress and I hang there like his jumbo sized Hermes Birkin bag, swinging back and forth a few times before he hauls me up at an angle and I'm back a little unsteadily on my feet. Allison holds up seven fingers to show her score, she's on the headset talking so she can't say if she's the American or German judge. Ryan retrieves my purse from the planter and sotto voice informs Sawyer, "The Russian judge gave you a six; she didn't stick the landing." Sawyer looks offended.

I'm so pleased that my hulking bodyguard – and someday I will insist with someone to see what death threats Christian is getting that he feels the suffocating presence of security people is so fricking important – is playing our game that I laugh. Sawyer gives an embarrassed grin and then looks around all professional and dangerous again. I swear I can hear women swooning over his performance. I'm going to have to find out if he's available, and if so, what side of the fence he prefers.

I gather the number for the Lincoln troll from Allison, looking like it was a book we are sharing reading. All I can say is that Sawyer is a dufus about females and books, because I don't know anyone who shares a read back and forth. But the fabrication is fooling all of Christian's snitches, so who am I to complain?

Sawyer and Ryan drive with me to an underground parking garage that is blocked off. It's in a new office development area and obviously not open for business yet. We get out and I look down at Kate's pewter jersey dress with (a splurge by my always borrowing fingers) her Louboutins in a complimentary jade and matching purse. Before I can comment that I am not dressed for any acrobatics, Sawyer orders, "Keep your purse."

"OK." I look at him, then Ryan. I have no idea if they, or even Christian, know exactly what my Dad was. Easy enough to find out he was a Navy Seal. But would they know he had made sure I at least had my head screwed on straight when it came to safety and self-defense … at least I did before I met and fell in love with one Christian Grey, Master of the Universe and Dysfunction King.

"Miss Steele, we're gonna work on some signals," my protector states. "If we're approached while getting you in or out of the vehicle, there are several things that could happen."

I raise one hand to stop him. "What if I'm still in the vehicle?"

Ryan thumps the SUV we've arrived at the parking garage in. "If it's one of ours, the only way someone will get you out of it is with a grenade or a rocket launcher. And then only if they hit it in the right place. Even smoke and fire won't affect this baby," he says proudly.

"All you would need to do is stay on the floor and wait for Taylor or one of the other guys to come rescue you," Sawyer assures me.

I'm thinking that means whoever was driving me is then dead outside of the safe SUV, right? How wrong is that? But this is their show and I'm not Ninja Ana. My amusement, long-suffering thoughts, my admission of these men and Prescott into my life as lost animals needing feeding and care … suddenly it seems a little different. Maybe Christian is paranoid, but these men are serious. I need to find a secure phone and a secure area without ears to call my Dad and start asking him some questions. Like what kind of man has this kind of security? Have I stumbled onto, like, criminals? Gangster Christian? Dear God.

Sawyer must have seen the panic on my face and thinks I'm worried about my own safety. "Miss Steele, it's all right. We'd never let anything happen to you. That's my promise; all of us promise you that. But we need to practice, for just in case. That one in a million case."

Has he met me? I just fell over a lobby planter for the twentieth time since my first day with SIP / GP. One in a million should be my middle name. Hello, I'm Anastasia Rose One-In-A-Million Steele. "Sure," is all I can come up with. Would I have noticed if Christian was a gangster, part of the mob? Hell, what does that look like? Handsome no good man with lots of armed protection, lot of money, likes pretty girls on his arm and in his bed … why hadn't I watched more mob shows on TV with Kate? Why wasn't classic literature filled with more information on this? Jesus, they poured fresh concrete here, right? Maybe Christian is getting rid of Subs in buildings throughout Seattle!

Sawyer is going over cues and codes and phrases, orders, directions and what all I am to do with each one. I'm smart, not a computer. He shows me how to brain multiple people, well just him and Ryan, with my purse. While Mary Jane shoes with the straps across the ankle are very pretty – so glad to hear my bodyguard likes my taste in Kate's shoes – they are difficult to take off quickly and he points out that since I don't exactly walk safely in general, suggesting I run in four inch heels is plain stupid. He even takes a moment to memo the "team" that I am not to wear any shoe that doesn't slip off except something I can run in.

Oh my gosh. He is one serious guy about this stuff. So now I unstrap the gorgeous little leather ankle belt of the shoes and get to practice not only kicking them off and running for my life in zigzag or straight pattern as I am ordered, but I can practice throwing them at my suspected attackers or kidnappers. That's it. I burst into tears at that last part. This is all too much. The day started out great – waking up in my own bed with Christian wrapped around me, having had more orgasms than a monkey in the Banana Republic, a smile on my face and hope for a nice long affair with the insanely handsome panty-flaming guy who gave me the orgasms. Or at least a week-long affair. Now I'm learning how to run from gunfire in a pattern and palm Kate's high heels and aim for an eye.

The next thing I'm clear on is that Christian has me in his arms and is promising me everything is all right. I vaguely hear Taylor giving Sawyer and Ryan hell for triggering my hysterics, and Katts offers to teach them a lesson. I'm a mess but Christian is obviously learning to be prepared for my emotional strong suit of tears and sobbing because after I snot up his white pressed handkerchief with his initials sewn on each corner, he hands me Kleenex.

I get out my initial fear; "Are you a gangster?" and Christian, to his credit, doesn't go off like a volcano but manages to get out of me where this concern came from. I sob my way through it and decided that his, "No, Anastasia, I am not a made man. My family would frown on any mob connections I might have. Elliot, being solely in construction, may have a few. It's necessary in his line of work, I suspect."

So … that's a maybe. As long as no one expects me to start shooting, and doesn't do so in front of me, I guess its ok. I'm still asking my Dad. Morgan can figure out how to get me some time on the phone with him. Dad doesn't trust the internet and I don't blame him, especially after seeing how Christian and my friends seem to just tap a few keys and bring up information on whatever they want.

I'm a mess, mascara coming off my cheeks as I wipe them, so I suspect KFC is out. But I really want some. "I'm hungry," I whine between sobs, but they're at least easing out. My chest hurts. I guess that whole "Tap your heel right into your attacker's eye, Miss Steele" really got to me. "I still want fried chicken … sob … mashed potatoes … gravy … sob … biscuits with hhhonney … sob, gulp, blow ..."

"Taylor, find a KFC drive through." Christian kisses my head, rocking me lightly as I am curled in his lap like a small child. "Just get six of everything."

Good grief. That last is enough to finally stop my tears. Only Christian Grey would over spend like this. With his food issues I am assuming he'll be donating what we and the security team don't eat to some shelter. I do like that about him. All right, I love that about him.

And there it is. I love him. It's my first romance and he's fucked it up so bad that I'm gonna be ruined for every other romance the rest of my life. But I'm giving this week a shot, so I'll go whole hog. My body comes back under control as Taylor and Ryan go inside a KFC on Aurora Street. Exhausted, I lay encased in Christian's arms. He's gotten my bun free of pins and is petting my hair. It actually feels good as I lie against his unyielding body and smell in his aftershave and cologne. Remembering that he needs to hear compliments, I give them. "You smell so good. It makes me think of you every time I smell another man's aftershave."

Christian stiffens, then sighs and strokes my hair again. "You could stop mentioning other men any day now." But he sounds amused. "I think it says a lot about how you are changing me, Anastasia, that my initial reaction to beat you for talking about even noticing another man is a second later turned into a mixture of amusement, gratitude that you think of me, and just plain turned on."

Does he really think about that? Beating me? I guess he would. It's going to be an uphill battle with all his responses to everything being thoughts of holding a belt or whip or cane and cracking it down on my naked body. I guess I must have stiffened up, and with my thoughts I decide to take a seat on my actual ass versus being toted around by Christian like a kid's favorite stuffed animal or blankey. But his arms tighten and I'm held firm. "Christian …"

"I'm sorry." His voice is tortured, deep with emotion. I whip my head up and look into his eyes which have gone dark and sad. "I'm so sorry, Anastasia. I know, now, what I did, beating you, humiliating you, was wrong. So wrong. I'm sorry," he repeats, burying his face in my neck and the mass of my hair.

I wait, but there's no request for me to forgive him. There's a stumper. Why not? Does he recognize you can't forgive those kind of abuses on someone? All right, I asked for the belt to my ass. Not particularly, or specifically, but I wanted to know about his punishments and he showed me. Do I believe Christian was in control of himself when he belted me? Hell, no. But I'll take on partial blame. The pee humiliation … that was all on Christian.

"Say something," Christian whispers.

The trunk pops open and I jump. Seconds later the heavenly smells of Kentucky Fried Chicken fills the SUV. I move insistently and finally get into my own place, fasten my seatbelt as Taylor with Ryan shotgun get into the SUV and we head toward the Fairmont. Reality strikes. "I need to get a change of clothes from my apartment." I clear my throat from the remains of my breakdown.

"Already taken care of," Christian tells me, reaching out and taking my hand firmly in his. He lifts it, kisses my knuckles, then sets it firmly down on his thigh.

So I get to wear whatever one of his non-mob security guys picked out of my closet. I am pretty sure I haven't worn anything other than a sweater and underwear out of my own closet since I started working. There weren't any professional options, other than some skirts and dresses more aimed at formal meetings with professors, scholarship and grant committees, and the finance office. I'll just cope. And I hope they found that damn Wal-Mart bag of real earrings. This reminds me … I look at Christian and he's looking out the window as we approach the Fairmont hotel. I guess he did rush to the rescue when notified of my little melt down. And I can always give the earrings back when we're through, or save them for something into the future when I settle down and have a daughter. Lord, I guess in twenty years I could have a son who likes jewelry, like Morgan.

"What's so amusing," Christian asks, tugging on my hand to get my attention.

I smile and shed my seatbelt one handed, then get on my knees beside him, wrap my arms around his thick neck. Who knew I'd ever like thick necks. So I kiss his thick neck, slapping at his hands as he tries to grab me once more. _Jeez, just let me initiate a hug, Christian._ "I was thinking how sexy you'd look with an earring, or an eyebrow ring," I tease. Taylor opens the back door and I gracefully – like a romping baby elephant – clamber over Christian and onto the red carpet. Ryan gets his hand under my elbow before I go down as one of Kate's shoes, still untied at the ankle, comes off. Katts appears with Sawyer behind him out of the following SUV and dives to help slide my shoe back on. I think I am officially feeling overly protected. I am no femme fatale. Have these guys, just maybe, never interacted with real Non-Submissive females before? I ignore Christian's glare and give the group a grin. "Don't you think Christian would look cute with an eyebrow ring," I ask them.

Taylor gets a sound in like a snort and gasp gone wrong, turns red and says, "Yes, ma'am," like he's agreed to some nasty root canal or maybe a tonsillectomy without going to sleep.

Christian scoops me up and suddenly we're right back to anger and yelling, flashing cameras and shouted questions. Oh no! Paparazzi mob!

"Put your face against me," Christian orders, half yelling, but his lips cruise my forehead quickly, and he's shouldering through the throng.

Where did they all come from? With my face hidden – oh, I can just imagine my puffy splotched face and raccoon mascara eyes. Why didn't I check my appearance after I got my ass on the leather seat of the SUV? The questions whiz past until we're in the hotel and Christian takes two flights up at a fast clip, and right into an elevator. He's roaring at – I take a brief glimpse and get my face shoved back into his suit coat – one of the hotel managers and Taylor's getting his share of the blame. I'm tempted to whisper "Yellow" just to yank his chain, but decide to let him play out. Really, if it scared me, it had to startle or even scare Christian. He's just using his trusty coping mechanism that's been in place for however long.

"Don't forget the food," I request.

Christian looks down at me, mid-yell. I peek up at him. "I'm really hungry. Sawyer had me running from your gun-toting relatives and creating one-eyed pirates from ex-VPs of NASDAQ companies."

Christian carries me into our suite then stands there looking down at me as I bring my head up. His eyes have already settled to soft grey, so very very pretty, and his color has steadied out. I guess as often that he goes ballistic, coming back under control isn't that difficult for his body. "Which of my mob-associated relatives was gun-toting," he asks, his head tipping to one side and that wealth of red hair swaying to his shoulder. "You need to wash your face," he adds.

_Oh, thank you for telling me I look like shit._ But I can't help but smile. "Mia and your Mom. Sawyer said to picture them with big black Uzi guns, like flame thrower size, ready to gun me down; that was my motivation for running a zigzag and snake pattern."

Christian sighs, juggles me around to get my shoes off, then sets me on my feet and kisses my forehead. "You've turned my crack solid security team into substandard weirdos. Go wash up. I'll get our dinner set out." And he pats my bottom and shoos me towards the bedroom and its attached bath.

I dutifully head in to get myself cleaned up. I don't see a suitcase laid out, so I check the closet. One side of the walk-in closet – and who has those in hotel rooms? – is full of plastic and clothe-bagged clothes on wooden hangers. The other side is Christian's suits and shirts, a belt tree, ties, at least twenty of them, and his shoes placed precisely in neat lines on the thick white carpet. These are not my clothes. Damn. I start to open the first bag and halt.

White carpet? Thick, beautiful, clean as new snow white carpet. I follow it out and look at the bed this time. A lovely navy blue with white piping satiny duvet and the usual ten different shaped pillows, complimenting whites and navies. Still in only my ripped out hosed-feet, I look out of the bedroom area. The living area has pale lavender carpeting, plush and lush, and every piece of furniture is now matching red leather or lavender with flowers or stripes.

Christian sees me as Ryan and Katts come in carrying large bags of KFC. "Baby?" But I can tell he knows I've cued in, just a few minutes late to the new carpeting and furniture in this royal suite. "Better? You like?"

And this is why he didn't throw a fit over staying at my and Kate's apartment last night. It must be an incredible feeling to simply have so much authority that a hotel suite can be revamped in one night. I'll have to think on all the ramifications of this. But in the meantime … "Christian, I do believe you just made an over the top gesture that actually makes me completely happy. This is exactly how I think a fancy hotel suite should look. Thank you."

And with that, I head off to take a shower.

I'll bitch at him about bringing Sub clothes for me later.


	30. Chapter 30

**Christian's Point of View**

(After their phone call at 11:30) What the hell is this Kentucky Fried Chicken? At first I thought Anastasia wanted to fly to Kentucky; and whatever she wants is fine with me. Its five hours to Kentucky from Seattle, which means I could fuck Anastasia at least three times each way. Really, I could be satisfied with just making her come every half hour, to even things out, but I'm just now getting her not to flinch and almost scream when I kiss her, so going for maximum stimulation and repeated forced orgasm – something I only participated in during group BDSM at clubs and during my time with Elena – doesn't seem rational. Just in case, I ask Taylor about it. And then I double-check with Flynn. It didn't seem like something to run by Mom or even Dad; I'm desperate, not looking for my parents to disown me.

That's when I found out that KFC is a restaurant chain. Sometimes I forget how rich my adoptive parents were. I guess Elliot, Mia and I missed out on fast food. I know what McDonalds is of course now that I had to get Anastasia chicken nuggets, fries and shakes, but why would I have even heard of this other place? It doesn't help that fucking asshole Taylor actually had blood coming out the corners of his mouth where he bit his tongue so hard to keep from obviously laughing at me. I hope it hurts like a mother! John sounded like he was drowning in his cup of tea when I asked him about this as well. The only good thing that came out of it was that they both confirmed that repeated forced orgasm is not recommended when you are in love with a woman who is not masochistic.

So ensuring Anastasia has multiple orgasms, check. Forcing orgasms until she chokes on her own bile, passes out and is requiring medical attention, no.

Back to the chicken from Kentucky. I pulled up the nutritional details and cringe. This is what Anastasia likes? I do a quick search. Yum! Brands, Inc. Fortune 500 company. They have a whole slew of poor nutritionally valued food chains and are international. Bottom line last quarter was in the billions. Hmm. Not bad. I tell my acquisitions team to start buying up stock. Pending on how much I like this KFC food, I'll buy it for my woman. Maybe as a wedding present? I pat the ring in my pocket in its small flat box. I know we have a lot to talk about, a lot to solve and resolve, but it would all move along much easier with my ring on her finger. I had Welch track down a judge here in Seattle who will sign off on a legal wedding contract and isn't fussy about both parties being ready, willing, or even able to participate in the vows. Since I fucking know Taylor and Flynn wouldn't like that idea, I tell Welch to keep his mouth shut and start in with a healthy bribe to keep the man on stand-by into the future.

Which reminds me … before Anastasia's request for dinner out, where I can spend a whole ten dollars on her if she super-sizes her drink and has an extra side item and dessert, I had contacted Flynn this morning and we had a Skype session.

"Christian, I've seen the gossip reports this morning and afternoon." John's face is pained. Since Anastasia came crashing into my life he has progressively lost his professional distance and is much more directive in giving me what I should and should not do. I really like this form of therapy and know I'm making real progress suddenly after twenty years. Of course, it is the first time I've ever committed to daily therapy, but … the nightmares have eased back in their intensity and disappear completely when I sleep with Anastasia. The little blue pills (another first since childhood) Taylor hands me every morning are also helping me control my outbursts. I've only broken two coffee cups and fired six people today. Four of which I know Personnel just shifted to other positions where they don't come into contact with me, the other two got a severance package. None of those things happened before Anastasia.

"What concerns me most are the actual facts. You and Anastasia were involved in a terrible vehicle accident followed by a house fire?" John continues.

I stop my racing thoughts and look at him as Skype does its job – Jesus I wish I had thought of marketing that! Then what he's said strikes me and I blink. My God. I hadn't thought of it before. I was involved with a car accident – thrown from the vehicle. And I could have died in that house fire.

"Christian, why are you smiling?" Flynn sounds freaked out.

I hadn't realized it, but now I feel my face pulled out to the sides, my lips gripped together to keep my teeth covered. I meet his eyes and raise my eyebrows. "I just realized I deserve some sympathy. I've been in not one but two traumatic situations. I need comfort and tender loving care. I need to try another getaway weekend immediately so I'm not traumatized, be able to relax." And this time follow exactly what my mother says to do. Of course, she won't say I can tie Anastasia spread eagle to a four poster bed, or spank her until she cries … wait a minute, am I allowed spanking her until she cries? John said I could spank her. Taylor did, too. As long as she says it's ok first. Why can't she just be my Sub? I could beat a Sub's ass until she started crying. After which I usually was done with the stupid bitch.

Flynn puts his hand over his eyes. "Christian, manipulating Anastasia is not a way to make your relationship better. I'm certain she is not ready for another attempt at a romantic getaway right now when her life was just in significant danger while in your company."

I'm fast going to run out of things to do with her. She won't come home with me, she won't go to a museum with me, and now my psychiatrist is suggesting she won't go away with me again? I tell Flynn I've got an emergency and end our session. At this rate I'm paying him like ten thousand dollars a week for all these contacts which he charges me an hour even if it's just a quick text asking him for advice. Any amount would be well worth it, but still …

I would text Anastasia, but she won't look at her phone except at lunch and on breaks. I tried last week having Sawyer or Ryan telling her I've texted or emailed her, but she told them to tell me she was working, which meant no socialization until break time. I guess I can admire that. I don't because I want her attention, but I could if I didn't.

So instead, I call my Mom, get through all the "I'm fine" and "Anastasia's fine", and get down to brass tacks.

"Mom, I want you and Dad to get to know Anastasia."

Dead silence. Then my Mom is sobbing and babbling that she's so happy and how if Anastasia hasn't thrown me over for all the shit she saw on the gossip channels and news, she knows that I've picked the right girl. Now what the hell does that mean? Up until Anastasia I was only in the business news. All right, that was daily, sometimes hourly, but it was business. The most gossip channels had to go on was when I went to lunch with Mia, Elliot brought some bimbo along with him when we went to our monthly lunch, or when I donated to one of Mom's causes. Hell, the press didn't even know about my mission to feed kids around the world – I worked through the different governments for that and there's always some other fuckhead willing to take the credit.

My Mom finally stops with the waterworks and says she'll get back with me about when she and Dad are available for "a nice dinner with Anastasia and you here at the house, Christian." _Whatever, Mom. Just so long as you welcome her to the family. _

It's going on five when I get Anastasia's text.

**/**

**To: Sharp Dressed Man**

**From: Piece**

**Re: What is …**

**Your usual work schedule?**

**/**

She is adorable. I start to respond, but Andrea books her blonde ass into my office with the Uganda Prime Minister Amama Mbabazi on the line. Now that he's gotten my attention, he trades me off to the Director of Crop Resources - Mr. Okaasai Opolot. I've worked damn hard to help them create a Directorate of Crop Resources which has three Departments namely; Development, Protection, and Production and Marketing. (real info with a bit of twisting for fanfic purposes)

The Directorate is basically to support sustainable, market oriented crop production, pest and disease control, quality and safety of plants/plant products; for improved food security and household income. The objectives of the Directorate are to support sustainable, market oriented crop production, pest and disease control, quality and safety of plants and plant products; for improved food security and household income.

Now I need to discuss Key Functions:

1. Provide technical guidance for formulation, review and implementation of policies, legislation, standards, plans and strategies in the areas of crop production and marketing, crop protection and on quality and safety of plants/plant products;

2. Coordinate the monitoring, inspection, evaluation and harmonization of national programs and projects in the sub sector;

3. Advocate and mobilize resources for the sub sector;

4. Provide technical guidance for human and institutional capacity enhancement for delivery of services in the sub sector;

5. Develop and promote collaborative mechanisms nationally, regionally and internationally on issues pertaining to the sub sector;

6. Provide guidance on the generation, dissemination and application of appropriate technologies and the provision of advisory services for the development of value chains in the sub sector.

I'm just about ready to start into Key Outputs when Taylor rushes in and announces that Sawyer and Ryan have Anastasia safety training in a building project of ours ten minutes away, and they accidentally pushed her too hard. As I stare at him in horror, thinking of my princess broken and fractured including another blackened eye, he says she's crying hysterically. I'm so relieved I could kiss him. Anastasia's built to cry – in any other female, including Mia and my Mom, I find tears barely tolerable. I'd rather take a punch to the gut by WWE Superstar John Cena than listen to some female sob and wail.

But my beautiful woman is like Seattle – it's gonna rain a lot. Christ knows I appreciate how wet she gets with that delicious pussy of hers, so I can hardly complain when she's wet up North, can I?

I yell at Andrea to hand over to Ros or reschedule everything, leaving Opolot hanging, grab my briefcase and we race for the SUV.

We arrive at one of the construction site Elliot has been given exclusive claim to, since I helped organize the bank financing for the project which will add millions of new office space footage as well as desperately needed parking here on the outer city edge of Seattle. Taylor parks the vehicle and I swoop Anastasia into my arms.

I hold her safely against my chest, promising her she's safe, that everything is all right, and that nothing will ever hurt her again. I mean that about myself as well. Daily sessions with Flynn, repeated contacts during the day when thoughts and questions hit me, have helped me see a few things straighter.

Yes, Elena was my only friend. And what a dysfunctional friendship it is – was. I am extricating myself from all business, personal, emotional and whatever other entwinements we have through family and BDSM. And now I am replacing her with people who have my best interest at heart: Anastasia, Elliot, my parents, Mia doesn't count because she's like one of those cute yapping furry dogs, even Taylor, Mrs. Jones, and Flynn. Except for Anastasia, they've all been here for years … and not one of them would have ever told me to punish Anastasia with a pee humiliation thereby driving her away.

I nod my approval and give both Sawyer and Ryan a cold glare to emphasize Taylor and Katts shitting hot and foul on them for upsetting Anastasia so bad. I pick her up, recognizing now that my need to carry her is a form of protectiveness and not barbarianism, and put her into the SUV, buckle us up using the extended seatbelt Taylor's had put in for just such a reason as this – Anastasia cuddled on my lap. Then I hear …

**"Are you a gangster?" **

Well, that just made my day. What kid doesn't play cops and robbers when they're little. And the bad guys almost always had really cool weapons, lots of money, and pretty half-dressed women; they drank heavy, did drugs, and after Elena got her hands on me, I would have laid bets that they were all into BDSM. Then, once I hit my business groove, I had a few choices. There's no such thing as straight and narrow in business. I deal with what the uneducated call "The Mob" frequently, even more so in my work with foreign governments, although the transportation business in the good ol US of A is pretty much run by businessmen and their pet politicians who drink heavy, use drugs, have plenty of cool gadgets and weaponry, not as much money as me – but still, gorgeous half-dressed women, and yes, most of them had a little playroom like me. Like I used to.

But now I answer, "No, Anastasia, I am not a made man. My family would frown on any mob connections I might have. Elliot, being solely in construction, may have a few. It's necessary in his line of work, I suspect." And she settles down. I get her hair free from the perfectly smooth thick bun she has worn almost daily to GP and entertain myself running my fingers through it. Anastasia has thick naturally curly mahogany brown hair that glistens in any light. I would always braid my Submissives' hair, a habit taught me by Elena so it was out of my way during scenes and playroom sessions. I can remember brushing and touching Mia's hair when she was very young; otherwise it is only Anastasia's hair I have played with. And now I seem to always be touching it. Smelling it. Brown sugar and vanilla is a waft of warmth in my nose, filling me.

I'm thinking about having the concierge get Anastasia's favorite body lotions purchased and up to our suite when my girl murmurs, "You smell so good. It makes me think of you every time I smell another man's aftershave."

Immediately, I'm at war with myself. Pleasure at knowing she's happy with me, just me, Christian Grey, then fury because she has noticed the scent of other men. So like an idiot I open my mouth. "You could stop mentioning other men any day now. I think it says a lot about how you are changing me, Anastasia, that my initial reaction to beat you for talking about even noticing another man is a second later turned into a mixture of amusement, gratitude that you think of me, and just plain turned on."

Taylor starts waving one hand urgently in the classic _'shut the hell up'_ gesture, and Ryan gives me a horrified look before turning back to stare out the windshield. I run over what I've said and it hits me. Shit! Anastasia has stiffened and is trying to get off my lap. I clamp her in place and hurry to get out the words, "I'm sorry." She lifts her head and those deep blue eyes, so singularly hers, look into my heart. I don't think I've ever apologized to anyone other than my Mom in my life. But I'm mentally on bended knee to this woman in my arms, always. "I'm so sorry, Anastasia. I know, now, what I did, beating you, humiliating you, was wrong. So wrong. I'm sorry." How do I tell her that it's a minute by minute struggle? That I think of her as my Sub every time bondage with torn sheets to titanium handcuffs slips through my mind, domination with my Dom persona, sadistic with me - perverted, vicious, brutal- taking my pleasure in masochistic little brown haired girls, roams through my ever active brain? Then I recoil from those very images because my pathetic attempts at making Anastasia my Submissive in any way has resulted in her turning away from me. And I can't ever take that loss again.

She looks away from me, struggles to release the seatbelt and sit beside me. "Say something," I plead.

_And what do I get? _ "I need to get a change of clothes from my apartment."

"Already taken care of," I assure her. Hell, Taylor had someone bring her entire wardrobe from Escala to the Fairmont somewhere between when we left for her apartment last night and today. Apparently Luke Sawyer wants her to only wear open-ankle shoes if they are heels – it must be to do with Anastasia's charming tendency to stumble, which gives me an excellent reason to keep my hands on her at all times. I reach out and take her hand firmly in mine, kiss the soft white knuckles, then set it firmly down on my thigh. Since she hasn't demanded to return to her apartment and is still letting me touch her, I guess my fair lady is going to let my ill-thought-out comment go and still try our week of cohabitating.

I look over and she's smiling in amusement. "What's so amusing?" And I am shocked to the core when she simply hauls her perfect ass up out of her seat and wraps her arms around me and starts kissing my neck. I start to put my arms around her, but she slaps me off. Fuck! Whatever she wants. Anastasia reaching out to me, initiating any intimacy, is something I have worked very very very hard for the return of. I'm hard as concrete, but I try to just accept her touch. Hell, I'm loving it.

"I was thinking how sexy you'd look with an earring, or an eyebrow ring," she whispers into my ear, then nips the rim.

Before I can react Taylor opens the back door and she slides over me and gets out. She dips slightly, losing a shoe, and Ryan grabs her elbow to steady her while Sawyer puts the shoe back on. I note the undone buckles once more, and that her stockings – my baby loves to wear thigh-highs for work and it kills me – are ripped out on the bottom of her feet. This must be from their practicing at the parking garage. I haven't gotten a report from Taylor or Sawyer, whose ass is in serious trouble for making Anastasia cry, on how she did with her first day of security defense partnership training. I'm not certain this all isn't too much for her, especially given her reaction of hysterical crying, but Anastasia must have at least some idea of how to respond if in danger that's at least marginally effective.

Then the paps hit – where do they come from? And frankly, why? People are just jackass stupid if they care about how I live. Maybe it's more Anastasia they're interested in. I scoop her up and make for our suite. The damn thing better be perfect or else. As soon as we left last night the decorators were to be in there making it just what Anastasia wanted. Her ideas on what makes a room are different from what I was raised with, what I see in my daily life. They're not bad, just so different from the norm.

"Don't forget the food," she requests. "I'm really hungry. Sawyer had me running from your gun-toting relatives and creating one-eyed pirates from ex-VPs of NASDAQ companies."

I look down at her, such a small armful and so very necessary to my life in a mere few months. Four months. We need this week together. I want to rush everything, ask her to marry me. But Flynn and Taylor are right. Anastasia needs a little time to know who I am, to trust me, and love me again. I can so easily overwhelm her with sex, money, power … overwhelm and terrify her.

Something tells me this is my last shot and I don't want to miss.


	31. Chapter 31

Tuesday is an adventure. I wake up to Christian very gently using curtain ties to bind my wrists. It's still dark but the alarm clock on the bedside stand reports its five o'clock. Apparently sleep time is over. I watch with interest as he stretches my arms over my head, me on my stomach, and ties them to what appears to be a brand new twist gimlet (Clayton's strikes again) screwed into the headboard. I can only admire his experience as he isn't even looking at what his hands are doing which is apparent because his lips are moving over my shoulder blades under my hair – no way can he see through that bird's nest. When he's done, I give a few testing pulls. The headboard doesn't move a bit and while my wrists have some room to rub against each other and the soft silk of the material, they're tight enough that I'm not slipping through unless I dislocate both thumbs. (Dad strikes again)

Christian moves down my back, nips both cheeks of my butt, and then spreads my legs. I get very hot, wet, and shivery when he moves off the bed with my left ankle in his hand. In the light offered from the wide-open bathroom door I stare with my lips pressed closed as he uses another silky curtain binding to connect first one, then the other ankle to the footboard, leaving my legs spread wide. I'm breathing through my nose, shivering from excitement and fear as he comes back onto the bed, kneeling between my spread knees.

He trails an index finger over my lips, telling me without words to be silent. Then the same finger traces across my cheek, pushing my hair back from my ear. He bends over me in all his naked glory, the heat of his body scorching. His lips, those perfectly sculpted lips, move over the corner of my mouth, my cheek, slowly to my ear where he breathes warm moist air before twirling his tongue around the outside, then delving into the folds and valleys. I swallow, breathing silently through my nose. My lower body is quivering, dripping juices slowly onto the sheets no matter how I internally clench, as he pulls my hair over the opposite shoulder and begins a wet-lipped journey across my shoulder and to my neck. I feel a wet splash and the simple knowledge that its precum from his cock dripping onto my ass cheeks is … oh, God, I don't know what it is.

"C-Christian," I whisper, whimper, as he bites my neck. Again, that one finger lifts to my lips, circles, strokes, then his hand slides across my shoulder as it arches to the headboard, crosses with an agonizingly slow glide down my side and to my hip. I sigh, gasp in air, as that large hand drifts across the back of my thigh and sweeps upward.

His fingers play over the curls, damp with my excitement, parting the swelling lips with the tips, being careful not to tug at the springy hair. I can see why being bare is a benefit … I'll think on it later. Right now, he's found my sensitive clit and begins to circle over it while at the same time his other hand is squeezing my ass cheek rhythmically. I can hear his breathing, it's getting harder, faster. Christian is kneeling between my legs, his knees pressing against mine so I can feel the pull on my ankles. Oh, God. I am so turned on.

His fingers keep moving over my clit, circles that brush the moisture I've made into an erotic lubrication that's spiking my arousal. His nails are biting into my ass and there's something in his body as I look over my shoulder that tells me he's just as turned on as me. Some part of me has wondered, questioned. How could he be aroused by me? I'm nothing special, I fit into the same size three or five as millions of other women, I'm a B cup size although I'd lie and swear I'm a C just to sound bigger, and while I'm toned I'm not exactly muscled – too much time sitting on my ass reading. I know my face – it's the same normal face I've looked at all my life. My best feature is my eyes, a little on the large side, but luckily that's considered pretty these days. Next year it'll be cat's eyes that are the "beauty factor". I still bless Proactive every day for my complexion and lotion every inch of my body twice a day to prevent premature aging. You think twenty-one is too young to worry? I don't.

But now, I can see he's turned on. By me. Yes, he's turned on because he's got me tied up – it's one of the things that simply IS for Christian Grey. But it's me, Ana, who is lying naked and bound under him, and that thick long cock is standing rock solid and up straight for Ana Steele. His Anastasia. I let out a moan and bury my face in the soft sheet already wrinkled and pulling from the corners of the bed.

I can't help it. I know he likes me to wait, wants me to hold off on orgasm because it's some freaking manner of control to him, but he's the one with those silky fingertips swirling around and around. And around and around. I'm all but cross-eyed as those filed and buffed nails dig little creases into my ass cheek and his cock drips over me and I flow all juicy down over those expert fingertips and soak a spot on the sheets and mattress. Fuck being silent! I scream out into the silence as I come.

And then he's sliding into me. Inch by inch by slow inch. I stretch, still squeaking with aftershocks and the new sensations of this position. Christian shifts, gets his knees under my thighs and now I'm stretched out and tightly bound to the footboard without any part of my lower body even touching the bed. Once he's got a good part of that bad boy inside of me, Christian stretches out onto my back, fists his hands around my bound wrists, and thrusts home.

He groans, loud, guttural, masking my cries as those last inches cause a pinching sensation, quickly forgotten or ignored. He begins thrusting, slow, long pulls and pushes. My body, still tender and growing used to this invasion and activity, protests between the pleasurable sensations as Christian proudly counts, "Two … Three …" when I go wild beneath him, bucking and pulling on my restraints as my orgasm swells and tears into my lower belly. I don't know how long he relentlessly fucks me until suddenly my lower back begins to hurt. I whimper and try to ease my knees down for support on the mattress, but he's got me tied up so it won't work. "Christian."

"Shhi-it," he growls into my neck. "Am I hurting you, baby?" He is thrusting faster now, harder, both our bodies so wet from sweat that we're both going to need a gallon of orange juice to rehydrate.

If he'd just come, I can manage this a few more minutes. My eyes flash to the clock. Almost six. I have to get ready for work soon. Please let me remember something about what Kate said when she shared with me that some guy was taking too long to do her! I circle my hips, _figure eight makes them detonate_ (thank you, Kate!), and keep it up while clenching internally with everything I've got.

That does it! Christian lets out a roar that can probably be heard a floor below us, jams himself like a bull between my legs, which makes me go off, and empties inside of me. He holds the position for an ageless minute, then collapses on top of me. I'm shuddering like I've just run a marathon, but jeez I'm gonna need a pill for my sore back. And I think my shoulders are hurting, too.

I have got to write some things for these BDSM websites about the challenges of aches and pains associated with the receiving end. And maybe Aleve will give me a contract if I mention they're my goto after morning sex in three point restraint.

God, I'm one lucky girl.


	32. Chapter 32

I make it to work at 7:28, thanks to Sawyer maneuvering like a veteran race car driver and Ryan all but helping me dive out of the minivan. I have no idea when Christian, or rather Taylor, got this pale green thing, but its obviously got all the bells and whistles including panel doors that slide out instead of doors for the second and third row of seats. Nifty. I barely get a wave in for Allison and toss the box of chocolates to Morgan as I get off the elevators and hurry to my desk. I miss the seat of my chair but Ryan gives me a shove on the back which prevents disaster as he angles the chair just right and when I plop back down my butt hits the mark.

Why didn't I get security guys when I was a kid? It would have cut down a whole heck of a lot on trips to the Urgent Care and hospital. Not to mention Band-Aid might have gone out of business without my daily usage. Bactine did go out of business, I think, after Dad got me hooked on tai chi and I stopped running into the corner of every counter and table I met. Or was that when I gave up on the dream of being a skateboarder?

Kate calls me to say she has reservations for a place called Comedy Underground for her and Elliot tonight, wants me and Christian there at seven, no later than seven-thirty as the show starts at eight. As per usual with Kate, it's turning into a party. She's texting everyone known to woman – her – and even though we were in college in another town, there's quite a few of her friends around. But to my amazement, she adds that Elliot's parents are coming as well as Mia and her friends from the theater. While we talk, I break my personal commitment not to do personal business during a work day and bang out reservations for this place for Christian and me, breaking another personal rule and putting the reserve on my cherished Visa card. Then I text Taylor and Sawyer, the later who's somewhere in the building while Ryan does the wall lean ten feet away from my desk, letting them know that I haven't asked Christian yet but I'm hoping for this place tonight ... so do whatever they need to about security and please keep their professional lips shut until I can ask their boss out on a date!

That done, I finish my conversation with Kate. I email the invite to Alison, Sharlie, Morgan and Ethan – who I think is still with his parents but he needs to at least get the invitation from me as well as Kate. I want to call Christian and ask him, or text and tell him I have a surprise for us to go out tonight … but it hasn't passed my notice that he didn't respond to my text yesterday. I get it. The contract said Subs don't contact him, he contacts them. And while whatever this is between us is right now, apparently the same rules still apply for him. So until he calls or texts me first, I can twiddle my thumbs. If he'd told me his work hours, maybe I could try for a lunch text, but he didn't. And I'm not going through Sawyer or Taylor to find out.

A half hour before our 10:20 break, I look up and Morgan has a tall gangly looking guy in tow heading back through the desks. I give Morgan a smile, assuming that he's heading for someone nearby, and look back down at the manuscript I'm zipping through. I used to be a fast reader. Now I'm a speed demon. Mr. Laumber bragged, per Morgan, that his department's productivity has improved by 10% in the past month and I hope I'm a part of that.

A shadow crosses my desk and I look up, see Morgan, smile. Then my smile falters as I see the young man, maybe a few years older than me, beside him. Next comes a flash of irritation with myself because I immediately realize that Christian Grey has rubbed off on me to the point that I feel this man should not be near me without security approval. Which causes me to glance at Ryan, who nods reassuringly.

Jesus Christ on the Cross! Is this how I would be if I somehow or other captured Christian Grey as my boyfriend? Standoffish, somehow above meeting other people? What girl / woman / human deserves to be placed on some shelf with a glass tube over top of her, apart from other people? Not this one, not Ray Steele's daughter. This is definitely something to think about. When Christian walks through this building people say the time of day and his name … _Good morning, Mr. Grey. Good afternoon, Mr. Grey. Good evening, Mr. Grey._ There's no warmth, no positive feelings there. And Christian ignores them all, neither seeing nor hearing them. I couldn't live like that. I can't. Even for a week. And not for all the orgasms in the world will I.

Morgan is wonderfully professional, his demeanor reserved but kindly. "Miss Steele, this gentleman has been sent by Mr. Grey to discuss electronics with you."

The tall guy is wearing a suit that looks like it is brand spanking new – or is so infrequently worn and well cared for that it is like new. A lovely soft brown pin stripe with a black shirt underneath, rounded collar so no tie needed. He holds out an oddly wide-spread fingered hand and grins at me. "Miss Steele, I'm Barney Boeh."

Barney! Christian's computer slave. I stand, the 4¾" heel of the iconic Italian fashion straight from the runway Sergio Rossi classic style leather pointy-toe almond pump that I couldn't resist in the Sub clothes collection makes connection with the bottom of my desk's leg. Automatically – for crying out loud the darn things cost $4,459 per the box price when I couldn't help but look – I jerk my foot back to save the suede from being scratched. That puts me off balance. Then my thigh under the Sub collection Oscar de la Renta cap-sleeve fold-neck sheath camel dress collides with the desk. Ouch! Son of a bi— and I pitch forward. Poor Barney isn't set up to take a woman tossing herself into his arms without notice and we go down in a tangle of limbs and spiffy clothing.

Morgan gets taken out in the flailing and I lose my breath as he squashes down on top of us. Ryan and a few of my fellow manuscript hounds get us all straightened out and eventually Barney and I are ensconced in a "Meeting Lounge" which is a fancy living room-like office that lacks any type of table and desk. It's all the new craze and of course Grey Publishing has put in new ones immediately.

Barney's so shaken up at being attacked by me that he now has verbal diarrhea. This is lovely for me. I hear about how Christian has indeed bugged seemingly everything that is or occasionally needs to be plugged in. Even my old cellphone, as I suspected, now has a tracking program, as well as call tracing and call record, meaning that Mr. Grey can listen to all of my phone conversations. Except that Barney just forwards them to Welch's office and someone there listens to them. Same goes, of course, with my email and work laptop. But this "palware" that "infected" all my electronics has been "nothing but a headache for all of us, Miss Steele" and they are all glad that Barney's fixed it.

So that's why I stopped getting waves of email, texts and direct to message cell calls. Barney stopped whatever the Super Friends had done. Damn.

"Look, Barney," I begin, giving him a warm smile, refilling his cup of tea and adding milk and sugar as I noted he likes. "I just don't understand these things. Would it be all right if a few of my friends, who do understand all this, come in? They can help explain it to me when I forget it an hour after you leave." And I bat my eyelashes.

He looks even more frightened of me and nods. I cheat. Hey, my kitty is aching from twice last night and the mini marathon this morning, so Christian can lose some employee time in payment. I call Alison, Sharlie and Morgan and beg them to come to this room to listen to "Mr. Grey's electronics expert. He's just so smart and I can barely understand a word he's saying," I coo. Then I figure I should back off a little as Barney looks like he might stroke out.

Luckily for him, Sharlie arrives. And it's love at first sight. You know, the kind all girls and boys (I guess) dream of when they finally notice there's more to life than mud pies and lightening bugs. He takes one look at Sharlie, a double of me only twenty pounds heavier, a female double of Morgan only (I don't know) a hundred pounds less; all long brown hair, blue eyes, and lovely complexion – I think she uses Zenmed. He pushes his glasses up on his nose, swipes his hair from where it drips over the frame of those wire rims, and gets to his feet. "Hello."

Sharlie blushes, looks down, scans him from his Thunder Cats Converse high tops to the sandy blonde top of his head, and returns, "Hello."

Barney apparently is not a man to hesitate once his attention (and affection) has been gained. He steps to Sharlie, takes her hand, and kisses the back of her wrist. "I'm Barney Boeh, President of Technology Integration for Grey Enterprise Holdings."

Wow, I didn't know he was so important. I'm guessing Christian snitched him out of some MIT or government think tank for electronic geniuses. I sit down, quiet as a mouse, joined by Alison and Morgan quickly. We watch them connect. This is better than the romance channel. And I can't help but notice there isn't a Red Room, Saint Andrew's cross, restraint or whip of some sort in sight.

Sharlie shares she works on floor six with Designing. Barney has no idea what that is, and still holding her left hand, he seats her on the couch, sits beside her and is fascinated. Sharlie explains that book publishers also help authors design their book cover to make it stand out on the book shelf. They present a number of different book cover designs and different fonts from which the author chooses. This task includes presenting writers with illustration that may appear in the book. Hence Grey Publishing employs artists, graphic designers, and a smorgasbord of others.

I think Sharlie could have been describing dog shit in detail, as Barney looks like he's been electrocuted in love. His dark brown eyes never leave her face and he drinks her in. Sharlie, I'm impressed to note, is doling out details with a hint of amusement at her new admirer, but it's obvious she's attracted.

Proving that he's spent time in Christian's company, perhaps too much, Barney announces he is taking Sharlie to lunch, calls Monique Janique the VP of Design and tells her Mr. Grey's President of TI needs to "continue my discussion with Miss White for an indefinite period of time today" and hangs up his cell phone without waiting for a response. Then he stands and with a "We can go over electronic protocols later, Miss Steele," he takes Sharlie's hand and leaves the lounge.

Wow.

Morgan, Alison, Ryan, Sawyer and I laugh ourselves silly. As it's almost lunch time, Morgan, Alison and I collect our sack lunches – dear God, Christian had the Fairmont pack me a lunch and it's all fancy with who knows what names. Even the bottle of water, specially packed so it's still refreshingly cold, has a name I've never heard of … Ty Nant Mineral Spring Water , Premier First Collection. Morgan, who knows everything or uses his busy fingers on his IPad, announces it is forty-eight dollars a bottle. I almost faint. Then I get paper cups from the water cooler and pour some into each one. We taste it, and it's just water. Expensive water, but freaking water. I could buy one hundred and ninety-two rolls of toilet paper for the cost of one bottle of this stuff.

Morgan and Alison inform me (while Ryan takes a break and Sawyer is on the phone with someone) that they have purchased a ten dollar disposable cell phone so I can make untraceable calls. Well, the phone can be traced back to whoever has it in his or her hands, but as far as owner and purchaser, nope. I take the opportunity, since the phone looks like my own cheap cellphone, to call Ms. Lincoln. She answers on the third ring.

"Hello?"

"Mistress, um, Miz Lincoln? It's Ana Steele." I sound all hesitant and hopeful. In my head, my two ladies wake up and start yowling. _My Conscience_ is screaming No, No, No! while _My Inner Goddess_ is putting on her boxing gloves with a big, very big, satisfied smile.

"Ana," the bitch troll purrs, "I'm so glad you called. I was quite dissatisfied with how our last meeting went."

When you were sitting on the bed I just got fucked on last night and this morning with Christian's hand on your dry pussy? Oh, I thought that went just fine. "Mistress, I did what you asked immediately," I protest. Sawyer is still talking but when he looks at me Alison mouths 'Sharlie' and giggles like we're getting a Barney report. He goes back to his own phone conversation.

"I suppose you did," Elena sighs. "What can I do for you, Ana?"

"I've decided that I'd like to get that training for pleasing Master," I announce softly, hoping she's straining to hear me. Isn't that what they say? Quiet voices are the ones most heard? "But I need to know if it will really help me or not. Do you have any, like, examples?" This is tricky ground, we've all agreed. Elena could rightly be suspicious that I would question her. But if Christian is to see her duplicity, Elena taking the unofficial "Submissive Ana" from him - and even my gray-eyed Dominant will see through this one - the groundwork must be laid.

And the bleached platinum blonde piranha takes the bait. "Why don't you come to my home and I'll show you a few training DVDs featuring Christian." She laughs, a screeching noise that makes me wince. "I'll order us dinner in."

"I don't see how I could, Mistress." I'm buttering her up now. Every time I call her that, Elena hums in pleasure. "Master has bodyguards with me all the time. I don't even drive myself anywhere. And they tell him everything I do, who I talk with or see."

Then Elena responds with information that stuns me. "Don't worry, dear. I'll make some arrangements and contact you. I have several people in Christian's security department, and I can manufacture enough of a business crisis one way or the other so that he'll not even think of you for a night." She pauses and I can almost smell the smoke burning when she says, "I did hear the two of you are staying in the Fairmont Olympic Presidential Suite. Hardly Christian's playroom."

_Hardly. Thanks to you and Christian, even seeing red silk or satin sheets on sale on the internet or TV makes me run screaming for a toilet to throw up in. And let's not forget the fact that I most likely will never be able to go into a museum ever again._

Great, now she's made me feel sick. With a quick "I have to go," I end the call. Morgan and Allison praise me for my acting skills and the conversation moves on to Morgan's affair with Ethan and how to his surprise Kate's brother is still quite interested and has already texted Morgan that he'll pick Morgan up around seven to go to the comedy club tonight. Then as Sawyer and Ryan approach so they can eavesdrop and report everything back to Christian – I grit my teeth and decide I can put up with it for just a little while longer – Morgan adds that he'll send me a manuscript after lunch with a note detailing his next surprise for the Troll Bitch.

Sounds good to me!


	33. Chapter 33

I have a lot of thinking to do as the day plays out. Between finishing reading my manuscript, making notes, going on to another manuscript, I consider my revelation about how pedestal-high Christian is, cut off from others. And the fact that I have almost fallen into the same snooty way of behaving. Before my Conscience can get a good hold on me and start her own flogging of my sensitive ass, I get the promised update from Morgan on the latest action in Operation Get Troll Bitch.

Since we've been so busy today (me making comedy club reservations, Sharlie ensnaring Barney, Allison I guess had a normal day so far), none of us knew about the surprise our Y chromosome (Morgan) has been working on. He manages, since we can't secretly text each other at present, to get us each the word via notes handed out right at the end of our lunch hour. Morgan – via a friend of a friend of a friend who is a genius hacker or something - has created a Facebook page for Ms. Elena Lincoln, financial benefactor to religious institutions. She is considering several sizable grants and looking for worthy churches, synagogues, programs, whatevers. She will be taking applications and conducting interviews all this week. He's listed her address in Bellevue. Her home address. To be helpful, after all this is an obvious attempt for the woman to repair her reputation ruined in the Esclava Salons news reports (and no one seems to know that she's going to be out on her ear there quite yet), Morgan has dropped quite a few hints to the news outlets. And he assures me it's not coming back on him or any of us so hopefully I'm safe from further humiliation bedroom games ...

Oh my God! By 2:30 break the media has set up outside Elena Lincoln's prestigious looking mansion. Normal cars and vans – you know, those that are five years old and are what a flagging church or mission can afford – are lined up and down her driveway and some seriously nice ministers and pastors and rabbis are getting plenty of air time from the swarming reporters. I know this because Mr. Laumber, who has to know something is up with me and the bitchtroll, invites Morgan and me into his office for a bogus discussion on new report formats … really it's to check out the madness on his big wall screen.

Having just found out that Elena has security through Christian – and why didn't I think of that considering she was his only "friend" and seeing as how protective he is of me as … well, whatever we are. Anyway, now that I know Taylor is no doubt in charge of Elena's security, I watch impressed, if disappointed, as several large men in the Christian Grey standard security uniform of blue and black two piece suits with ties, and weapon harnesses mostly hidden under their coats, back off the press and organize the churches. But damn if those religious people aren't persistent. They are bound and determined to get up to the front door, and inside.

Mr. Laumber and Morgan grin and I giggle as Elena Lincoln is seen allowing a few inside – I don't think she's got much of a choice. And maybe she's decided that it is good press coverage. Or who knows what that stupid BDSM Domme bitch is thinking. What I need to do is consider what she said during our brief phone conversation. Does she really have people from Taylor's security secretly on her side? I guess on the 'inside' of Christian's world as well?

_"Well, of course she does_," my Conscience responds. She looks like a professional detective, suited up like Cottie, hair back, playing with a large magnifying glass. _"It wouldn't take much for her to seduce one or more of them. And she's got money, she could bribe whoever in Christian's business. She's not stupid, no matter what you want to believe, girlfriend. I'm willing to bet she picked out just the right ones, those who wouldn't take it back to Taylor or Christian."_

My _SubConscience_ pops her head up from where she's industriously doing my manuscript reading at my desk. _"You shouldn't be having any contact with her at all, much less letting her believe you'll somehow or other sign on as a Submissive in training. Let it go already. Christian told you the longest he's ever been with a Submissive was six months. He's known you for four. Enjoy the last two months then you can scuttle into the sunset and we'll find a nice man someday to fall in love with. Preferably one who won't beat you." _She sniffs disdainfully and gets back to work.

My _Inner Goddess _is tied to the bed at the Fairmont, this time on her back with a pillow supporting her spine, naked, ready for a few more mind-blowing orgasms. _"Can you just get back here in bed with him," _ she asks lazily, squirming around.

Great, my three mental helpers are all over the place. I get back to work after my 'meeting' and gratefully accept a green tea chai latte that Sawyer brought me while I was safely in Mr. Laumber's office and missing my break. He waves away my offer to pay for both of our drinks, says Christian has it covered. What? Do they turn in receipts to Taylor and get reimbursed?

I am still thinking things through as Sawyer drives me with Ryan and now Cottie behind us in another – this time brown – van and black SUV respectively back to the same parking garage that's still closed down. Obviously not wanting to get ripped for me having another nervous breakdown, Sawyer carefully reviews what we will be learning and practicing today, and asks me to please let him know if I am feeling overloaded. I get it, he really got bawled out about me bawling.

But all the time I am learning how to dive into the driver's seat between using a hidden vehicle code card to restart a vehicle – in case it's turned off – and which buttons to push on the front dashboard and the command board that's between the passenger and driver seats to basically announce that I have a life expectancy of twenty seconds and am kissing my ass goodbye – I am thinking about how much I hate Elena Lincoln for destroying Christian. She took a messed up kid and turned him into something monstrous. I can agree that he may have chosen the BDSM lifestyle without her, but with her taking him and creating first a Submissive and then a Dominant … well, he didn't even get a chance to see what love could be. And she had her crone hands on his throat ever since, supplying him with Subs for an incredible fee and making sure he thought typical emotions of caring, sharing, love were weak.

I could maybe cope with that. Despite it all, Christian was now an adult and could make choices. Bad ones, good ones. He had built up a billion dollar business making decisions, so I can hardly say he's incapable of doing so in his personal life.

But Elena Lincoln had told him to punish me. I got that he asked her about how to punish me, for something that I do not consider a situation that deserved more "punishment" than an informational discussion. But as a fellow woman, a fellow human, she had told him to humiliate me. And even now as I slice my purse at Cottie's throat and kick off my shoes to ruin yet another pair of tights – these are silk thanks to the Sub clothing line in my hotel bureau – even now I feel tears falling because I had foolishly thought Christian was taking me on a date, a wonderful private tour of a museum and romantic dinner, when all it meant was a way to bring my guard down so he could enact that punishment.

"Stop." Cottie has seen my tears and quickly reassures me I'm doing a good job, notifies Ryan and Sawyer that I've had enough. They all check on me, but I'm not in the mood to really talk so I get into the SUV and let Cottie drive me back to the hotel.

I don't know what time to expect Christian at the hotel. The paps are grouped around and today I'm taking a different tack with them. When I get out and they're screaming questions at me, I pick an innocuous one to respond to. I smile at the young woman who has asked how my day was. "Thank you. I think I got some good work done."

There's a moment of utter silence except for cameras and breathing. The woman is stunned, then offers me a smile. I smile back then let my security team hurry me into the haven of the hotel where the paps aren't allowed to step foot until I'm safely in an elevator. Sawyer starts to admonish me, but I hold up my left hand. "No." I got a wakeup call when Barney showed up and I felt like he wasn't allowed in my space or to talk with me without some secret OK from Christian and my security. "I'll be nice if I want to."

Christian of course is on the phone to me within five minutes. I have just stepped into the shower when Cottie comes into the bathroom with a cell phone. Irritated now, I get out and take the phone. "WHAT?"

Dead silence. Then Dominate Christian shows up. "Did you just snap at me?"

"Yeah, as a matter of fact I did. Do you want to go out with me tonight," I add before he can respond. I know how to derail Kate, I'm a pro at redirecting her tirades, and now I lob that ability at Christian pissy pants Grey.

"I'll be there in half an hour," Christian snarls at me.

This is a non-answer. Fine with me. I shower, washing my hair thoroughly. I'd been running late this morning and had done a half-assed job, so now luxuriated with conditioner for a few minutes. I get out and look through the drawers and bottom cupboards where familiar things have miraculously appeared. You know, it rather irritates me that one of Christian's servants barged into Kate and my and Ethan's place and got my things out of the bathroom. I look at my birth control shots in a white pharmacy bag, individually boxed. I swear they look like someone sat on them because the boxes are wrinkled. I check one but it doesn't look like it leaked, so I guess they're ok. The last thing I need is an accidental pregnancy. I take out the vitamin E and hemorrhoid creams, all packaged under fancy names and prescribed to make some company money, and put it on my bruised eye; sometimes the old remedies are the best and the combination of those two things will tighten up bags under eyes as well as decrease the swelling and discoloration of a shiner. Plus I'm a fast healer; my body's had all that practice.

I'm blow drying my hair on cool gentle setting when Christian opens the door. I look up at him from my seat on the bathroom bench, and my jaw drops open. There stands one pissed off gorgeous Master of the Universe, and those gray eyes are focused on me. My SubConscience is taken by surprise and squeals in alarm at not having an escape plan ready. My Conscience screams, _"Apologize!"_ And my Inner Goddess rips off the towel covering our body and shrieks, _"Thank God! Orgasms!"_

Christian snatches me off the bench, I drop the hair dryer as he just drops us to the bathroom floor – thank Christ for a furry polar bear white rug – and fastens his mouth to mine. Oh those lips fashioned after some Greek god, heavy and sweet like honey on mine. My Inner Goddess should be happy because the towel is ripped away and about the time I start worrying about someone getting electrocuted or something by the still running and jumping about like a snake hairdryer, Christian gets his zipper down and tangles his legs with mine before setting himself all large and hard against my opening.

"You are mine," he growls, levering up on his knees and elbows, hovering over me. His eyes are molten and hold mine like a fly caught in a spider's web.

I'm not sure what to do with my hands – he's let me touch him but I really don't want to kill the mood – so I let them lie back on the furry rug, damp from the steam of my shower, and stare up into the spider's eyes. Well, they used to be grey but now they're shiny like one of the fancy refrigerators that are all the rage, flowing with anger and lust and … and they're reflecting my own eyes, which seem to be a trifle … err, excited. Fuck it. I get a breath in, whisper out, "Yours."

And we're off!

Well, I'm off and he's just half way in me. I really suck at this orgasm denial or holding off thing. But right now he doesn't seem to mind as Christian groans, "One," and settles his teeth on the tender flesh where my neck and shoulder meet.

I fist my hands into the rug and lift my hips. "Tell me what to do," I pant as my sauna hot body finishes the hard shudder and fast arch of my chest to his. How did I get all sweaty in like one minute? My heart is protesting the abrupt explosive sensation, but God I could care less. "Christian, tell me what to do!"

He snarls something as he presses home. I grit my teeth at the pinch. I'm wet, hell I'm always wet as soon as he touches me, but he's still big enough that this isn't exactly easy at first. I shut my eyes, jaws clenched, bucking under him until I suddenly realize that I'm fucking myself on him. Oh God! Christian is frozen in a tangled up pushup position with me and I'm using him like he's my personal dildo. My eyes shoot open and he's staring down at me, into my eyes, grinning like he's won the lottery, breathing heavy through his nose, and sweat dripping down his brow and onto my face. How long was I performing like this for? I immediately go red, feeling the rush of blood up to my cheeks then down to my chest in embarrassment.

He's holding still and I'm doing myself on him, under him. Like a dog in heat. My hips drop to the carpet and I scrunch my shoulders and try to slide out from under him. Embarrassment doesn't describe, doesn't cover what I am feeling. I can't meet his eyes. Immediately Christian lowers his weight over me. He yanks the hairdryer by the cord and it pops free to leave us in sudden silence. He yanks at his trousers and boxers, getting them down to his thighs, then his hands reach for mine and he begins gentle slides in and out of my depths, flexing inside of me. "Shhh, baby. You're so beautiful. I want this to be about us this time."

That catches my attention away from being branded a slut by my Conscience. She's got a good hold of my Inner Goddess by her hair, but they stop the fight to both look at Christian, dumbfounded. What the hell was it about the last six times? Not about us? Was he fantasizing about someone else? I force myself to look back into his face, focusing first on his lips curved upwards, then to his eyes, still silver but deeper, warmer now.

"You're doing everything just right," Christian breathes. He moves his mouth to mine, kissing the corners, my lips, the corners, then licks at them. "Give me your mouth, Anastasia." It's a command.

My Inner Goddess shoves everyone aside and takes over. My lips part and I suck Christian Grey's well experienced tongue into my mouth. I bite that sexual beast, slurp at it, suck some more, nip, then gasp for breath. I'm not the only one. Christian is actually gulping in air. Good. My Inner Goddess dives into his mouth, investigating with hard deep plunges, his throat, the roof of his mouth, sweeping around his tongue and trying to clean his teeth with my tongue. I hope to hell he likes it, because I and my IG are getting off on it big time. Or, well, it could be because we're back to fucking Christian from the bottom. Is this what it means about topping from the bottom? Because I am topping myself right into another orgasm … and **_yes!_**

"Two," Christian snaps. When I stop shaking and whining with gratitude and orgasmic lust his hands are cupping my face and I yelp as he rolls and my hair, somehow tangled in part with the bench legs, gets a hard yank. "Fuck!" Christian screams, and hauls off and hits the bench. It goes flying toward the still-open bathroom door and busts, pieces flying. I'm not watching the bench, I'm scrubbing at my scalp and looking at my hands to see if I'm bleeding or not.

A few seconds later, me still checking for blood, Christian still hard inside of me and looking at my hands to also see if I'm bleeding, both of us breathing hard, sweaty, hot and Jesus I think he's only been in here for like two minutes … Taylor and Sawyer come in like they expect we're being mugged, guns drawn.

I scream, Christian swears really really loud, Taylor and Sawyer I think are trying to determine if I'm ok or should they be extracting me from under Christian – who is awfully heavy despite the fact that I've got some poor dead animal's skin under my naked ass. Or maybe they like looking at Christian's naked ass?

"I'm fine," I whimper into Christian's chest where I've buried my face – when did his shirt come open? - puffing some of the fine russet hairs there, in response to Taylor's questioning, "Miss Steele?"

Now they're tripping over themselves to get out of the bathroom doorway with the hairdryer tangling with the pieces of wood and cushion and I think one of the cupboard doors broke as well. I don't look but I think Sawyer went down during the exiting maneuver, then the bedroom suite's door bangs shut.

I can't help it. I start giggling, which quickly turns into laughter. I peek up at Christian and he gives up all the fury trying to brew there and he finally laughs as well. He pulls out of me, tenderly pulls me up to my knees on the white fur in front of him, and still laughing combs his fingers over my scalp. "Sweetheart, are you all right?"

I'm snorting laughter, get a "yes" out, my body vibrating. The thought of those two men, both having seen everything Christian does, did, to those Submissives and whoever else he's brought home, and me, falling over themselves to get out of the bathroom, apologizing … oh lord!

Christian cups my face again, kisses me, regaining control. Just as he likes it. Holding me to him, he leans back and into the broken cupboard opening. I blink at a white bottle he has retrieved, then I am settled on my knees and Christian wraps one big hand around the back of my neck, lowering my face to the rug. "Stay," he orders crisply.

Oh dear. Have I been a bad dog? But the flippant thought halts as he stuns me by thrusting an oiled finger into my bottom. I half screech half gasp and start to try and scramble away from this way too sudden backdoor attack. But with a dark loud command to "Stay still, Anastasia" and his hand is back on my neck, fingers curled around me to hold me to his order. I freeze, held firm by those fingers spread over my bottom, definitely one deep inside my virgin asshole, the other hand firmly controlling me from the other end.

"That's my good girl," he praises, holding me still. I want to know if I've been bad, really, or is this … what? We never got this far before. I whimper as he stirs fingers over my sensitive opening, dipping inside my moist and weeping wet vagina, then he feathers my clitoris. "That's my very good girl," Christian repeats, his voice deeper, stronger. "Move back against my hand," he orders.

I'm frozen. Do I want this? I clench, wetter than ever. Shiver. When his hand leaves my neck I stay still, a deer in the headlights. His arm circles my waist, still in his suit coat, and he holds me. Then he moves his hand. Back. Forward. Just once. Twice … a third time. His fingers of the arm holding my waist stroke between my legs. His arms are too long, I think as he controls me completely … I whimper as he curls those elegant talented fingers into my dark curls, tugging.

I have never, never felt anything like this. He's circling that finger inside of me, I can feel the silky stickiness of the lotion he's used. The hand tangled in my muff pulls, distracting me from one pain to another. I don't even know if it is pain. Just, maybe, arousal? "Chr-chr-istian."

And then he pulls both hands away, takes my shoulders to raise me back to my knees and against him. He catches my chin with his fingers and I'm suddenly alarmed that he's going to try and make me taste the finger he's just had in my ass, but instead he gazes down into my eyes. "That was perfect," he praises me. "You did so well, my little Anastasia." His grey orbs glow with pleasure and his mouth comes down to mine. The press of lips to lips, breaths softly exchanged, grows once more into passionate take … and give. "So beautiful," he murmurs, and lifts me over and onto him as he leans back onto his heels.

I shut my eyes, wrap my arms around his shoulders and grip onto his hair. I swear he has the idea my body bends in ways it doesn't. But this time he seems eager to find his own nirvana, and we come together. I don't think we've done that before. There's a happiness to it, like we both gave our best and our all, at the same time. Eventually Christian stands up and we disengage. He points me toward the shower and starts undressing.

Well, hell. Now my hair, going to be washed for the third time today, will be a disaster. Any one of multiple possibilities: limp, wiry, straight, corkscrewed … the list is endless. I have never washed it three times in a day. Yet another Christian Grey first for me.

Christian joins me in the shower and I am nervous enough that I keep my front to him. That whole finger and command thing was just a little startling. I guess I'd feel better with a firm Sub contract to say where that's going. I'm sorry, but the man hurts vaginally. Anally I'm likely to be ripped in two and take up permanent residence in Dr. Dom's Sub-referred medical facility. I guess I'm obvious to Christian, the great Dom, as he tenderly washes me with a flannel clothe, not saying anything when I jump and back into the corner when he reaches around me to use the clothe … there. Christian just follows me, pulling me up against him and washes softly. He seems content to keep his lips on my face, sliding them smoothly for one place to another, lingering repeatedly on my own lips. No deep, tongue twining kisses, just sweet nuzzling. And every once in a while, it's almost like we're dancing as he moves with me under the multiple sprays of warm water.

"So beautiful. You did so well," he whispers.

I'm beginning to worry about that last sentence. My SubConscience sends up a memo. _Distract him._ Thank goodness for her help. "I thought we could go out tonight," I offer. "Kate and Elliot could meet us at this Underground Comedy club. I went ahead and made us reservations." I brush my lips over his throat, waiting to see if I get explosion, agreement, grumpy, suspicious … is this how men feel when they ask women out cold?

Christian pulls away and looks into my eyes. "For you? Anything. But I'm paying."

Of course he was. But I'm smiling happily and finish conditioning my hair as Christian gets out and tells me to stay in the shower until he deals with the "fucking mess you made me create."

Just to mess with him I stick my head out of the fancy shower doors. "You ever have Jalapeno Poppers?"


	34. Chapter 34

**Taylor's Point of View**

Miss Steele is about as jumpy as a cricket and her eyes are a little wild. Now what did the boss do? Or is that a stupid question. He got out of control again in the bathroom – looked like he was throwing things the way that bath bench and the vanity cupboard was busted up. But she said she was ok and when I turned on the microphones for the master suite she seemed to be having a good enough time. But there was a few minutes where things had sounded a little uncertain there … he probably pulled a jackass stunt. The man has done things bordello whores don't know and it would be just like him to fuck up again with what I think is his only chance in the Universe for happiness.

We get to the Underground Comedy club that Miss Steele sprung on us. It took me hours to get the staff and comedians cleared, and that was with Welch's help, then the NDAs had to be signed (it's no one's business what Mr. Grey eats, drinks, how often he uses the john, or if he fucking laughs at the comic) – I had Andrea go to the club to do that since we left GEH early after Anastasia answered a paps question. The boss was beside himself once Sawyer, who told me she set him down with a few words when he tried to correct her, called him to report the incident – which was on the gossip channels within five minutes. Luckily for Sawyer we got the news to the boss in four. I have to admit she does look adorable, even with the black eye she barely covers with makeup, and the paps are behaving in a halfway decent fashion after she gives them that soft sunny smile and tells them she had a good day at work.

I have to make some decisions and recommendations by tomorrow. As soon as it came out that Grey appears to be dating, and in fact in some sort of relationship with Miss Steele, the threats, hate mail, sexual offers, love mail, and advice started coming in. I got a basement office at GEH filling up with cards, letters, gifts, printed off emails, faxes, and whatnot. Some of it sick and nasty, others appropriate (I guess), and all of it never getting to Miss Steele and only by report to the boss. I'll let Grey decide what to do with the gifts, some of it pretty decent jewelry, that have already come in. Usually he just says to send it to a charity and I imagine this will be the same.

The boss is way overdressed but I doubt he notices. He wears a suit and tie almost always, not even changing into comfortable clothing once he gets home from work until he goes to bed. Well, now he changes when he's with Ana, or has a couple of times. And although he hadn't thought about it, obviously, he's gonna be wearing something very different for this game Miss Steele is roping him into. I just hope the hell she knows what she's getting into.

_On the drive from the hotel to the comedy club …_

_"So if I'm wearing a school uniform, what are you wearing?" Her voice is soft, sweet. I flick a glance in the rearview mirror and the boss is so fucking glad she's talking to him he's almost ripping himself out of his seatbelt to get over to her side of the limousine._

_"This?" He sounds hopeful. I know he already got her the schoolgirl uniform because I took the delivery package and cleared it. Hell, he even has the hair ties in matching colors with ribbons and a pompom. I'd say 'sick fucker' but the thought of Gail looking like a naughty student makes me hard as a fucking ice pick … I ordered her the same damn thing delivered to us at Escala._

_She rolls her eyes and sighs. I see her eyes flit to the front seat where me and Ryan are and listen to Grey lie his ass off and say we can't hear them. I dutifully fiddle around with the fake radio on the dash and Ryan looks out the window. She smiles nervously back at the boss and glides those slender fingers over his cheek; and he about drops his jaw. That poor schmuck is so in love with this young woman. We're all rooting for them. Hell even Flynn has come down off his pious seat in the clouds and is all but telling the boss what to do and say._

_"No. You need to look like a school teacher, not a movie star." She's grabbing something out of her purse and misses his amazed stare. He knows he's a handsome fucker; women have come right up to him and flashed their naked pussies in his face begging him for a fuck, but hearing it from Miss Steele, even in this off hand way, has pleased him. I know all his expressions, a lot of his thoughts. It's my job. "Here. Like this."_

_I really want to see what picture she's handed him. I need to put cameras in the ceiling over the back seats. Maybe she'll leave it with him … or I'll just snitch it from her purse later for a quick look._

_"Glasses. My hair is not getting styled like that. Who in God's name wears checkers?" The boss is not impressed. The he glances at his woman's pout and figures out snapping how he isn't doing what she's asking isn't going to get her dressed up in that sexy outfit and his cock up her. So he does a quick turnaround. "Where do people buy this shit?" Good save._

_"Sears, I guess. Oh good. I see Kate and Elliot." And Miss Steele is off on her social track as a group of her friends and Mia and her theater friends are milling around outside this place._

Present … at the club.

The boss is trying to impress. He's making sure all the drinks for everyone Ana and Miss Kavanaugh invited or know in the place are paid for, as well as the food. I just about bust a gut when he tastes his first Jalapeno Popper. But the horrified expression ain't nothin' like when he got to try KFC last night. I can say in the seven years I've been with him that he's never had greasy food. Just the look on his face as he delicately picked up an Original Recipe chicken breast, all that grease coating his fingers, and took a big bite – getting the mostly cooked chicken with the oils and special herbs and spices into his mouth and some of it down his chin – was priceless. I was watchin' it on surveillance since I knew damn well he'd be nailing Miss Steele as soon as he could so didn't need in-room company, and I swear I felt something pull from how hard I was laughing. It was even better when an hour later, just as he got Miss Steele naked and bent over one of those matching sofas, he had to run for the bathroom and almost shit himself before he got on the toilet. I can foresee the same thing happening in about an hour after he gets done eating all this food Miss Steele and her friends order and then share with each other … and he tries to man up and bites down on a half-eaten mozzarella stick covered with some fake crab sauce that Miss Steele holds up to his lips.

I've got this place covered so I know when the silver limo pulls up. Robby tells me the Swan and Drake are here. They weren't on any list I saw, but my guess is Mia or Elliot told them about their middle child actually setting foot in this place and have decided to come and see for themselves. I move to the boss' back and murmur, "Your parents are here, sir. I'll arrange for two more chairs." By now the idea of separate tables has become more like several rows with various people turning every which way and changing seats to talk and laugh. Miss Steele has a wonderful laugh, and an even better giggle, and between her friends and the boss making attempts to get her to smile just for him, those sounds both ring out often.

Dr. Grey and Mr. Grey enter, both over dressed like the boss. Unlike the boss, they both realize this, but they cope well. Carrick slips off his jacket and his security step up to take it, then Dr. Grey's jacket as well. Perhaps realizing that wearing a hundred thousand dollar necklace and earrings isn't the norm either, as I see Grace take those off and pass them to her coverage as well. Then Mia pounces and brings them over to where Christian is gazing at them like he doesn't know whether to tell me shoot to kill or just crawl under the table.

Despite obviously enjoying herself here, Miss Steele has still been jumpy around Grey. Whatever he did in the bathroom with her, he knows she's not recovered because he's keeping it simple in the form of PDAs, just holding her hand and kissing her temple. But when his parents show up and are suddenly behind her, she turns bright pink and looks horrified.

But graceful as always, Dr. Grey smiles and reaches between them to take an onion ring and bites into it. "Mmm good. These are better than the ones we have at the hospital," she gushes. "Carrick, will you order us a basket? And a beer for me. Ana, it's so good to see you again. You have to come to Mia's show on Friday …" Damn, that woman knows how to mingle with normal people as well as her usual set.

I settle against the wall as the first act gets ready to start and plastic trays with sandwiches start being served. Grey hardly listens to anyone but himself, so it surprises me when he gets an arm around Ana and pays attention to the first comic. I gotta admit he's trying this new lifestyle, what's normal for the rest of us mortals. But his expression when the wine he ordered, the best they have here, is rather frosted because I have no doubt that he has no desire to drink something that costs a hundred bucks a bottle. Then Ana steals a sip from his glass, gives him a little smile. He immediately drinks from the same spot her lips touched. Yeah, a fool in love.

As the second comic takes over I run through my mind about the Lincoln situation. Grey has been clear that after his lunch meeting with the bitch on Thursday that we are pulling completely back from her. No phone calls, no visits, no texts or emails. She is to be completely blacked out. I'm under orders to take back the two cars he leases for her and end the contract for her limousine service. All her credit cards signed off by him will be cancelled at one p.m. Thursday. I have a four man crew who do security on her and they'll be pulled off with the option to stay with her if she wants to pay for them. Considering the way some asshole set her up with that religious payout thing on Facebook today, she'd best hire somebody. Eddie reported that she wound up funding a few places, piddly shit like ten thousand for a half dozen programs each. I'd bet it's all the boss' money, but the bet ain't worth it cause I'm one hundred percent sure she used an account that belongs to Grey. While I'm thinking about it I text Welch that information and suggest he get the paperwork done on those places. Even if he didn't select them I know the boss will continue to support those places as long as they're on the up and up.

That done, I do a sweep of the area. There is almost no chance of a planned attack here, not with the last minute notice from Miss Steele and there ain't one loony or pissed off businessman who would even think Christian Grey would step into a place like this. No, the security issues are still more in the office and home. Grey's plan to get his lady back into Escala, which frankly would make my job one whole hell of a lot easier, is set to go into action on Tuesday.

As long as my contact still has the cat …


	35. Chapter 35

**Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who lets me know what they think, feel, hope and wish. The interactive manner of the comments section is so much fun! I have had multiple PMs requesting to know if Christian and Ana will get a HEA = yes, but in the 3rd part of the story. Will there be cheating = heck no. Why is Ana so ditzy and hard to understand = have you read the FS trilogy? Why isn't Christian just telling Ana he loves her and acting as if he no longer thinks of her as his Sub = because he still involuntarily thinks of and treats any woman he's with as a Sub unfortunately including Ana. What's with the cat and Taylor = I don't want to give that one away, sorry. So read, enjoy, get a laugh or a groan or a moan! Hard Pouncing **

(special thanks once more to DeepMemories from which I have cabbaged)

We actually had a conversation. On the way home in the lime green van, Christian having snuggled me onto his lap with the seatbelt surrounding us. We talk about our evening: my friends, his family, the standup comics, the food. Poor Christian has no idea the names of what all he tasted, and I know he didn't like most of it, but he lies and says it was all wonderful.

For some reason, and I understand it, I go completely soft and gooey with the realization that I could tell he was lying. In the darkness of the second row of this van's leather seats, only light from the city businesses and streets reflecting on his face, I, Ana Steele, can tell from his expression and voice that Christian Grey has lied.

So I kiss him. My fingers twine in his rich red locks and I snack hesitantly on his lips, then tip my head onto his shoulder and let him take control. It's a part of him, being the leader, the aggressor. And for now I can allow it. Who am I kidding? _I want it._

Several dozen tired looking men and women with cameras and handheld microphones are waiting when we arrive at the Fairmont Olympic hotel. Luke Sawyer gives me a covert glare, warning me silently to stay quiet as he opens the door for us to get out of the van. Christian swishes me into his side and splays a hard hand over my hip, also a silent warning. And I think of Morgan bringing Barney to my desk, how I tensed up when I realized I didn't know if it was permissible to talk with him.

Never, never, never will I place myself behind a glass wall. I am not a fish.

"Mr. Grey, are you having an affair with Ana Steele?"

"Does it matter to you that she's an employee?"

"Mr. Grey, did you purchase Grey Publishing to gain Ana's attention?"

"Is it true Ana makes twice as much money as other employees at GP?"

"What has he bought you so far, Ana?"

"Smile! Over here!"

"Ana, who is your favorite band?"

"Miss Steele, is Mr. Grey giving you an allowance?"

"Where will you be spending Grey's money?"

Really, they can be incredibly rude. And I have no desire to engage them. But there's a point to be made, both to myself and to Christian. So I dig in my heels, which causes Christian to simply lift me off my feet and keep moving with those long legged strides toward the safety of the front doors of the Fairmont.

"Where were you tonight?"

That one I can do. With Christian threatening me to "Shut the fuck up, Anastasia" in my ear … I respond.

"We went to a great comedy club. The Underground? Terrific loaded potato skins and the second comedian was the best." And I smile.

Christian gets me in through the doors, starts swearing like a sailor whose boat is going down. But it's quiet, not screaming at the top of his lungs like a little boy who's been told he can't play with his toys. He lifts me with an ease of the same child with a toy over his broad shoulder and he takes the staircase to the left up at a rapid clip. With my hair falling around the back of his knees, I scramble to make sure it doesn't tangle him up or we'd both go back down. Taylor's face looks amused when I get a handful of my hair out of my eyes and Sawyer is not even trying to hide his smirk.

I just love being the amusement for Christian's people. We get into an elevator and I let my hair drop again. Under cover of the limp mass I curl my fingers into Christian's excellent ass, give him a friendly squeeze. That earns me a sharp slap, which makes me squirm and my fingernails graze down to his thighs. I get another whack and things might have gone further if the sound of a stern cough from Taylor hadn't stopped us both.

We get into the suite and Sawyer and Taylor smartly disappear toward their section. Which is just as well as Christian swings me down, right onto a couch, and crushes me under his weight. Then his mouth is crushing mine and things get hazy fast.

His mouth is initially harsh, furious, but I've learned how to counter that. I am pliable, accepting, allowing him to take that Dom role and submitting. And as I do so I feather my fingertips into his hair, twining, pulling … something I now know his other Submissives were never allowed to do. They couldn't touch him like I can, they weren't allowed.

Time passes and the biting fury, the punishment of my lips begins to end. "Christian." He's relaxed some now, lips nibbling mine as if to apologize for the soreness and swelling he's caused. "You did so good, darling."

That gets him. He lifts his head and locks eyes with mine. "What?"

I smile, nuzzle my nose along his, stealing his action. It's nice. I see why Eskimos kissed this way. "You did so good. You didn't yell and scream at me, or anyone else." My lips tingle a little as I speak, but I place it on the pleasant side of the scoreboard.

"I didn't," he admits with a trace of surprise, this time dipping his head to place a gentle kiss on my lips.

"I think you deserve a reward." My eyes crinkle as both his eyebrows shoot up and those gray eyes go hard.

"Miss Steele, I won't be tutored in what you believe are appropriate behaviors," my Fifty Shades warns, going Dom again. The arms around me tighten.

I huff out a sigh. "Jeez, Christian. Just get off me and let me give you a blow job. OK?" Not the most romantic suggestion he's ever heard, but I'm guessing he'll agree. What man doesn't want one?

And that is how I end up naked on the new carpeting on my knees in front of Christian Grey, equally naked and sitting leaned back on a fancy wing-back chair. If his moans are any indication, score one for a girl who can read and do internet searches!

I move my lips to the helmet of Christian's impressive dick, having smeared my lips with watermelon flavored "Wet and Willing" cream I dug out of my purse. The smooth, hard surface of him (and this ain't no six inch banana like we practiced rolling a condom on in eleventh grade health class) has some give as I roam my lips over him kissing, licking, teasing ever so gently with my teeth. I explore the hole in the center with my tongue, the _meatus_ – hey, I've been doing my homework. 4.0 GPA, remember? Named or not Christian is obviously enjoying the stimulation. I look up at his face as I delicately suck the head into my mouth, nursing in little sucks, letting the hungry noises float into the suite. His eyes are slitted, watching me, the fingers of one hand curled into his own hair, gripping hard. His breathing is starting to harshen and he's watching my mouth work him.

I so want an A for this. I might even keep one of the pair of those gorgeous Balenciaga wedge sandals as a reward for myself ... Christian and his next Sub won't miss one pair, right?

I slowly take the hard, sensitive head entirely in my mouth, then use my tongue to stimulate the frenulum. I'm between his legs facing him, able to go deep and steady as I use my tongue on the underside of Christian's penis, popping the head in and out of my mouth. Taking my time, I pull the head out and flick my tongue rapidly. The internet said some men really get off on this sensation – Christian appears to be one of them.

My reward comes when he says my name. "Oh God, Anastasia. Yes! Just like that." The hand that had been clenching the arm of the chair winds into my hair, guiding me deeper.

This time he groans out his pleasure as my tongue guides him along the roof of my mouth and touching the back of my throat. I count to ten, sucking on him, increasing the pressure, then ease back. I'm not good enough to breathe through my nose and do this at the same time. But someday I will be. In the meantime I breathe around him, then take him deep into my mouth again, running my tongue along the veins on the bottom of that hot heavy cock.

But my lips are really getting sore now, so I pull away and grab for my purse and the bottle of watermelon creamy lube. Christian opens his eyes, protesting that I've halted – "Don't stop, baby. I'll give you anything you want, just don't stop, Anastasia." But he's reassured from his worry as he sees the tube in my hands, closes his eyes and rests that head of wild thick red hair back against the chair.

I drip the lube slowly along his head and shaft, and then use my fingertips to cover his penis. It takes a long slow time as I discover him. But just as I start to hesitate, feelings of … I don't know … shame? Embarrassment? The inability to act like Christian's Submissive down on my knees and performing like a lapdog? Some part of being raised in an environment that says sex should only be performed in a dark bedroom with the female on the bottom, a part of me that says I'm giving something away for free to a man who won't, can't, appreciate it … my Inner Goddess sits up and I actually feel her shove me aside.

And it is such a relief.

As if from a distance I huddle safe inside all my doubts and insecurities, the ones that have developed since Christian Grey first presented me with a contract that gave him all the power – no matter how he presented it to me – that said I had to give him everything. Safely I let my Inner Goddess enjoy this experience, revel in it, call it her own. It's my Inner Goddess who is hungry for Christian, for the taste of his salty juices, who is willing to swallow him and his offerings.

She enjoys the feel of his slick rod in her hands and mouth. She simulates intercourse, bobbing up and down on his shaft. Fingers now silky smooth with flavored lubricant stroke him eagerly. Proving she was at the head of her class, my IG sticks out her tongue and says "Ahhh." Christian's fingers lace through my – her - hair and he cries out. Next she leaves her tongue out of her mouth, running it back and forth around his frenulum as she strokes him firmly, using both hands to ring his impressive girth firmly, as if he's a double handful of frozen yogurt I want out of its tube. Then it's back to sucking him in and holding while she rubs him with her tongue, tightening her lips and using suction until she feels dizzy, then ejecting him slowly and pumping him with both hands again while our bodies greedily drink in air.

My nostrils are filled with the scent of him. Christian Grey. It's a scent I want to memorize so I close my eyes. When I'm old and in a nursing home somewhere I want to take this memory out and look on it with pride – that I, well my Inner Goddess, Ana Steele, made a billionaire sadist playboy blow his juice into my ravenous mouth and down my throat. Just me. And I'll remember how he smells, the dusky scent of sweat and body wash and cum, the heat of his skin, the feel of him huge and hard and unbending.

Then it happens. Christian's hands in my hair clench so hard I feel the pain down to my shoulders and he screams out "God! Oh God! Suck my cock, you bitch!" and he explodes into my mouth, hips jerking and making me take more than before of him. I start to gag, needing air, but Christian doesn't care, or can't. He lets it all go, responding with groans and swearing as I lick him clean.

"Anastasia. Oh, Anastasia," he slurs out after a while as I gently unwind my hair from his fingers that have gone lax and limp around my shoulders. I get free, press a few kisses onto each of his muscled thighs, and then crawl backwards before standing.

My back hurts, my jaw feels slightly unhinged, and my knees are protesting, but it's my mouth that's gotten the damage. I look at myself as I use mouthwash, floss, then brush my teeth carefully. Both sides of my mouth are torn and slightly bleeding from being stretched. Since I have the cream for my sore eye, I pat some onto my mouth. You know, no one ever talks about the challenges of sex. It's just all wonderful and adventurous in the movies, on the written page, and on the videos I pulled up to teach me how to do what I just did. Easy peezy.

Well, it's not, I think sarcastically as I take a warm wet wash cloth out to where Christian is knocked out in the chair, lightly snoring, a hunk of one hundred percent beautiful strong male. I decide against disturbing him and go back into the bedroom, making sure the alarm clock is set for six a.m. Aches and pains happen a lot from sex. And I don't just mean emotional.

Thinking about it, I could write this stuff down. A book. Definitely adult rated. But a book talking about sex from a realistic viewpoint. The facts of sore mouths from blow jobs, bruised inner thighs from just bottom of the barrel sex. And with thoughts swirling, I fall asleep. Sometime later I wake slightly as Christian pulls me into his body. Content, I rub my head into its place under his chin and return to sleep.


	36. Chapter 36

**Christian's Point of View**

I love Anastasia awake. Her skin is so soft, smooth. My palms simply glide over her and my fingertips feel as if they are touching the finest satin. In the dim light from the bathroom door I can see she's put on a long white nightgown and it takes barely a tug from my fingers for the straps to snap free and then I pull it down from her amazing body. This lovely gently curved form I have claimed and will worship for the rest of my life is bare for my enjoyment.

And it is enjoyment. I can remember my amazement at Elena's body, my first real-life naked woman. It was a few months of my being her toy when she introduced another woman to her Playroom in which I was chained frequently. I don't remember her body, her name, her face; I remember that she was young and things were really firm – something I hadn't known could be different from Elena, a woman twenty-five years my senior. And I remember how I was taught to hold off on orgasms inside her tight ass, how she'd beg me with tears in her eyes to come while Elena stood behind me, my balls in her tight grasp, warning me if I came that she'd deliver a punishment, bruising my balls so I could barely walk. It only took a few times of her paddling my scrotum while I was strapped across her wagon wheel table screaming in dredging deep pain for me to get the idea that delayed orgasm was ideal.

Now, I'm learning to let go. Just a little. Or I'm trying to. I know I've hurt Anastasia by taking a long time to fuck her, to make love to her. She hasn't said anything, just as I would expect of all my Subs. But she's not my Sub. I love her. So there're two issues. One, she needs to tell me when she's sore because Flynn has been very clear that Anastasia in pain is not to be tolerated by me. I am to guard her against injury both small and large. It's called cherishing. And once I've wrapped my head around this new knowledge, it is beginning to make sense. I plan to cherish Anastasia in all ways possible. Second, I need to feel successful when I let go rather than going for hours without coming. Flynn's clear on that, too. I can lose track of time when I'm fucking a Sub; we've discussed over the years how I'll come back from wherever my mind went to find that I've beat and fucked one of the women I employed for hours, sometimes a whole night. It's important I not do this with Anastasia. Flynn is suspicious that this detachment is what happened both the time I beat Anastasia with the belt and spent the night making her orgasm before completing the pee humiliation.

I deny the time I beat her with the belt was one of those incidents. While I lost control, it was me, the Dom Christian Grey there in my Playroom - and I knew it was Anastasia.

But the humiliation … John is probably right. I don't remember all the things I did to Anastasia, although I am certain I carried out the plans and fantasies I had made. No, I simply remember the beginning when I pounced on her as the elevator stopped at the penthouse, and took her into the Playroom, ignoring her hesitancies because they didn't matter to me – I was so pissed off that she could have screamed Red at me and I still would have taken her in there. Then there's nothing until I'm back in my skin and Anastasia is tied by my expert hands into a Reverse Shrimp position, my hand cupping her sex and I'm milking her until she pisses all over - herself, the bed, me. And by the time it's finished and I've untied her, by the time … by the time I had her in my arms and was telling her I was sorry, it was too late.

But that's not a problem this morning. Anastasia gave me the best blow job of my life last night. I am amazed I didn't stroke out. I seem to have passed out, though. Last thing I remember was her sweet tongue licking me off. When I woke up it was close to one in the morning. About all I could do was stumble to bed, get my beautiful lady into the right position wrapped up against me, and crash. And now it's her turn.

Arousing Anastasia takes one minute. I hope to hell it's just for me that she is such a sweet wet and hot fuck. Shit, I know it's just for me. This woman didn't remain pure with wet panties for a thousand other guys. It's my touch, my voice, the feel of my body on hers that is soaking her sweet body. I play with her clit, teasing it with my fingertips, rubbing, squeezing subtly. She's very sensitive, something that is frowned upon by most Doms. A Submissive who is busy being aroused and coming is a Submissive who isn't paying attention to her Dom and his needs. But Anastasia, again, is not my Sub. She's a gentle and amazing human being that I want to arouse. I enjoy it. Far more than I ever enjoyed beating and tormenting and, yes, torturing women in my Playroom.

She wakes just as I bring her to climax, screeching like I've slammed her fingers in a drawer. It's one fuck of a turn on and I keep her going by grinding the heel of one hand over her sensitive mound and clit, the three fingers of my other hand thrusting inside her wet cunt fast and hard. When she collapses back on the bed, scarcely breathing and whimpering I mount her. Jesus, I love that phrase. I mount her. Like a stallion going on his mare.

Even now as I take her, make love to her and kiss Anastasia's lips so gently as I can see and feel how swollen they still are, see the open stretching rips at the corner junctures of her lips, her eyes in the dim light are fearful of me. Of what I will do with her. To her. I whisper her name, the exotic sound and texture an aphrodisiac – "Anastasia" -, and use my voice to encourage her. On my command she wraps her arms around my shoulders and her ankles at the small of my back. This feels so wildly unusual, bringing our bodies together, linked. She's thick with delicious wetness, so hot and I slide in and out of her tight sheath, guiding myself to find the sensitive slick of flesh which will make her come and scream again like minutes before. Halfway through a withdrawal I find the perfect spot. Anastasia's gasp and surge upwards to keep me right there tells me I've hit gold. Now I shift to my knees, holding her waist so I can work the spot. Her hands flutter from my shoulders then grasp my hair. I knew there was a goddamn reason I keep my hair this long. It's because it will allow Anastasia to have thick handfuls to hold onto while I make her come. Which she does when I do.

There's a catch in her throat and she chokes for air, then her stomach muscles tighten to steel before she gets in that desperately needed breath. My sweet baby jerks involuntarily as the first spasm hits her, the pain of her tugging on my hair is offset by her baby blue eyes, midnight black with lust that go wide and unseeing as she arches her back and begins to bounce on the bed as the pleasure spears through her entire slender body. And I hold my dick inside that rich tube of pink inner flesh and ride her through it.

The alarm clock sounds and I use it as a trigger. My release is long and rapid, squirting inside Anastasia's lush pussy to mix with her juices. I may have yelled, my throat hurts when I come to enough to realize she's rather scrambling around under me. Damn, I'm crushing her. And the fucking alarm clock is still screaming. I roll away and she gets in a few deep breaths before reaching out for the clock.

That was my mistake. Letting her move. I knew she was still shaking from my drilling and my darling girl isn't exactly stable normally. I open one eye, still breathing like I've gone a non-stop hour with Claude, just in time to see her fingertips touch the top of the clock … and Anastasia overbalances off the bed. I make a grab for her and drag her back onto the bed and to the other side of me where there's a nice large expanse of mattress. Then I throw the offending machine at the wall where it explodes pleasantly into pieces. I may have been swearing. Loudly.

Anastasia sits up, sighs, and taps me on the shoulder. "Time out. Five minutes."


	37. Chapter 37

**Author's Note: Thank you to JN-Runner (I swear I thought White Castles was a National chain!). This chapter is rather disjointed as I move Ana through her day, but I felt certain clues and points were needed and creating several chapters wasn't necessary. Hope everyone agrees. Thank you to everyone who reads my story – it is so fulfilling to 'write out loud'!**

Christian sends me a text just in time for my morning break. I'm pleased for two reasons. The first being, because he did. The second is because before we parted ways in the hotel lobby this morning I suggested he text me if he had a spare minute and thought of me. My Conscience was very proud of how I made that sound so casual and offhand, but he probably got that it was a bid for attention. I am so pathetic … but he texted!

**/**

**To: Legs**

**From: Sharp Dressed Man**

**Re: Dinner Tonight**

**Since you are broadening my dietary horizons, do you have any preferences for tonight's dinner?**

**/**

Aw, sweet. That's an easy one. I love White Castle. Unfortunately it's only in the mid-west states: Illinois, Indiana, Kentucky, Michigan, Minnesota, Missouri, New Jersey, New York, Ohio, Pennsylvania, Tennessee, and Wisconsin. My Dad will get together with some of his buddies from the service and someone would bring cases of White Castle sliders – small burgers with extra pickle and onions that are so deliciously greasy and amazing that you don't mind the stomach upset … at least none of us ever did. And their chicken rings – oh my they are wonderful. Well, no harm in asking for them – Christian can always just tell me no. Or he can have someone go and get some in the closest State ... let's just see how far Fifty Shades of Adventurous Eating will go, I muse and skim my fingertips over the keypad of my old cell phone.

**/**

**To: Sharp Dressed Man**

**From: Shaking Your Tree**

**Re: My Horizons Are Yours**

**I would perform illegal acts for White Castle. You haven't lived until you've eaten a half dozen Sliders with extra pickles and onions. Or a dozen. And they're great for breakfast, too. I might even perform illegal acts while sipping one of their half chocolate half strawberry shakes. Note that I have not looked up what all is legal and illegal in this municipality. **

**/**

**Welch's Point of View**

Why the hell do I have to fly to Minnesota for White Castle food? I am the fucking Chief of Investigative Services for GEH, not a pizza delivery boy. Not that this place has pizza. I'm under orders to "get a case of everything and make sure there's a half chocolate half strawberry shake with that." But the point is that this is not my job, no way, no how, and not even under the classification of 10% Other Job Duties is this part of what I do.

If fucking Grey hadn't called me himself and said this is what his lady wants and told me he only trusted _me_ to bring the shit to the Fairmont before five, I'd have assigned it to any one of five dozen other people. Does he think someone's going to figure out the food's for him and poison it? Paranoid bastard! All right, he's got plenty of reason to worry; there are no less than forty-six death threats I'm working on right now. But still …

**Return to Ana's POV …**

So Allison has managed to find out from a woman who does the same thing at GEH that she does here at GP where Christian will be going to lunch with the bitch troll tomorrow. A restaurant called Shiro's Sushi, on 2nd Avenue. It's not even open at lunch time but for Christian Grey there will be a table and the most attentive wait staff at 12:15. The owner and chef, Shiro Kashiba will wield the blade and make sushi and whatever delicacies Christian and Miz Lincoln want. I hope she gets a poisonous puffer fish bite, but my luck isn't that good. Sigh, sigh, sigh.

Morgan goes to work and within an hour I get a manuscript delivered that on page sixty-three (our secret page for passing messages, a different one every day since Barney the Brilliant ruined our original method) tells me that a listening and recording device will be set up so we can know exactly what is happening. I'll say one thing about my Super Friends – they hate Elena as much as I do … and they aren't too fond of Christian, either. It's something to think on. But the recording will be in Morgan's hand just as soon as Christian and BT leave the restaurant and his friend can trot it to Grey Publishing. He'll make flash drive copies and deliver them.

So now I need to figure how I can plug the drive into my computer or laptop without Barney and Welch finding out … or Sawyer and his gang. This requires Sharlie.

We meet in the bathroom on my floor because my security team doesn't freak out if I spend twenty minutes in here. Do men really think it takes twenty minutes to go to the bathroom and swipe on some lip gloss? Apparently. Here's a hint, guys – we're talking! I smile to myself with the realization that Cottie hasn't given the secret of the ages away. BT would probably announce it on the six o'clock news, but it is doubtful she has any actual friends who would want to gossip with her in a public restroom, or a private one.

Sharlie is playing hard-to-get with Barney. But to be fair, that's because after he all but kidnapped her for the rest of the day and treated her like a princess with sightseeing and lovely private clubs, Barney the Brilliant didn't ask to stay the night. He did send her flowers today here at work (a lovely bouquet of roses), and he's called three times – she let it go to voice mail each time. Then she texted him that she had a lovely time yesterday and perhaps she could cook them dinner this weekend. We giggle over that. It's a standard ploy to deduce the sort of fish it is who's nibbling at the baited hook. Will he back off and wait for an invitation? Call or text back? Keep nibbling or go after another fish?

Regarding my getting to watch the replay of Christian's lunch with BT, Sharlie identified that Sawyer and Company wait for me outside of Mr. Laumber's office, not inside where they will typically follow me otherwise. So if Morgan can find a reason to get our boss out of his office I can get "called in" and do a replay on Morgan's I Pad with no one else the wiser. Works for me.

At five o'clock I am back in the Parking Garage of Doom. Exactly why would I be in a position with four people trying to grab at me? Maybe I should look up Christian's name in the FBI database for criminals. Because no way do upright businessmen have their lady friends being threatened by people like this.

Cottie is holding a thick cloth like its got chloroform on it and will knock me out if it goes over my mouth and nose. Katts is holding a girl's plastic baton filled with green gel and sparkles that represents an iron bar like he can bash my brains out or use it to incapacitate me. Sawyer's got rope to tie me up with and the hard plastic on the ends confirms it is jump rope. And Ryan's swinging a water pistol around. Did they stop by Kidnappers R Us, the let's pretend aisle? It does occur to me that maybe this is some BDSM fantasy or X-rated film – is there a dirty mattress a few yards behind a large dumpster for them to put me on and have their evil way with me? No. Right. That's Christian's deal.

The smile I give myself helps keep the seriousness of this "training" from overwhelming me. But it is serious and seems very unreal. Except it's not. Christian has billions and while he has a paranoid and obsessive personality, these concerns may be real. Either way I break a heel off a Sub Collection Jimmy Choo shoe when I throw it at Ryan, he ducks and it hits a square building block. Then I rip the skirt seam in the back of my Zigzag Pointelle Dress, Black Berry Combo, which is – or was – made from 100% Viscose. Hell, I had to look Viscose up on the Internet; its synthetic velvet or what we normal shoppers in the good old US of A call Rayon.

Now it's a rag, since the sleeve just ripped when I managed to yank away from Cottie. And I am glad Christian is buying us dinner because my budget for thigh-high hose is shot to hell by running around without shoes on. At least I'm prepared today as I have 1969 tie-dye legging jeans and a Sofia Vergara Women's Studded Pocket Tunic Shirt with casual Converse in a bag to change into before I walk into the hotel.

The Fairmont is now staffing security or really buff bellboys for when the limousine (I don't ask where the other less ostentatious vehicles are at) sweeps up to the red carpet front entrance. These guys dressed in Fairmont staff uniforms back off the paps. But I'm on a roll and while some of their questions are truly insulting, there's more polite ones now. So I take a moment to respond to a young woman that calls out, "Miss Steele! Who are you wearing?"

Cottie is growling, "Don't talk to them, don't talk to them, don't talk to them," in my ear and Sawyer's face is white with two patches of red on his cheeks. "Please keep moving, Miss Steele," he begs me. I ignore them both.

Oh, this is going to be good. "I found these pants at The Gap, and the shirt is from Kmart." You could suddenly hear a pin drop. I hide my smirk and tone it down to a sweet smile. "I love your shoes," I compliment the reporter or whatever she is. They are gorgeous high heels with feathery strands of leather floating around her pink painted toes.

Then Taylor appears, puts one mammoth arm around my shoulders and guides me into the hotel. "You just can't leave it alone," he mutters with a long glare at me as the elevator makes the quick trip up. "He gets it; you like to talk to people."

I shrug. I didn't ask for all this attention, but I'm going to handle it as best I can. Christian never responds to paparazzi and yet they still follow him around – admittedly it's like multiplied by a half hundred since he came out of the closet as not gay … but my point is that his _'ignore them and they will go away' _attitude wasn't successful. So why would I follow in his footsteps? Isn't there some saying about not following an Eskimo over thin ice? "Can you have a piano brought up to the room," I ask Taylor now, instead of starting a discussion on my talking to paps.

Taylor just looks at me tiredly, then nods. Poor guy. It must have been easier for him when Christian just kept his Subs locked up in the White Tower of Escala, beating them behind closed doors. Of course, they were willing … I hope.

Christian is waiting for me in the living area. For a moment I just stand there looking at him. I guess it didn't click for me that Taylor being at the hotel meant Christian was here as well. I definitely need to try and catch up on some sleep as tiredness is making me stupid. But for now I drink him in. I'm his … lover? Yes, lover. For this week I am claiming that role. Girlfriend and lover. And that means I can look at him like he's a very pretty fish in my pond.

He waits, standing in front of the fireplace, eyes suspicious as I look him over. He's got on hard shiny black shoes that have thin shoestrings. I will bet there's some place his shoes go to be specially shined. And his suit … cut to show off those long legs, not baggy – Christian Grey doesn't do baggy unless he's posing as a surfer dude playing beach volleyball – and loose enough not to emphasize what he's got between his legs. "Why do you always wear a white shirt," I ask him, still in the doorway to the living area. Mrs. Jones appears (_What? He can't live for a week without her,_ my Conscience asks blankly) and takes my purse and the bag with my torn clothing, wordlessly disappearing back toward the master bedroom.

"Don't you like it," Christian asks me, surprise opening his reserved expression and he looks down at his chest.

That wasn't an answer, but I am beginning to understand that at times he automatically avoids ever giving a direct answer to a question. I haven't quite figured out what those times are yet. But he's loosening up. He has been since we first met, I decide. He just showed me surprise in his expression and he's not yelling which is surprising because I'm sure he already knows I spoke to a pap. It makes me smile. He didn't like getting time out this morning, especially since it was paired with not getting to join me in the shower. Who says you can't teach old dogs new tricks? "I think you look very handsome," I respond now.

He frowns and strides to me. Large hands, warm, cover my shoulders, his fingers feathering over my shoulder blades, and he pulls me against that black jacket over the inoffensive and quite attractive white shirt. I slide my fingers up the lapels, very lightly so I don't trigger his phobia, and grasp his black tie with both fists, tugging him down to me as I lift my face. "My sweet Anastasia," Christian smiles at me as his head lowers and our lips meet.

It's so very good. His lips breathe over mine, initially just touching. I feel like a palm frond has brushed over my lips, the tingle and rub of something both soft and rough. Then he kisses me again. And again. I feel his fingers spreading lower, crossing over my spine and pressing me forward so I am fully against him. My breasts are crushed over his ribs and he groans something unintelligible before opening his mouth over mine. His gray gaze has drugged me completely. My lashes flutter down and I give myself to this passion we have.

It's hard to say how long this sauna of kissing has been going on when all the throat clearing catches our attention. But when Christian lets my mouth go my lips are throbbing, I'm wet and definitely aroused between my legs, and he's holding me against him with my sneakers banging his shins. "What the fuck, Taylor," he grumbles – not yelling.

I turn my head on Christian's shoulder and see Taylor and Bron with two men and a large piano. I have no idea if this is a baby grand or … what do they call them – Wurlitzers? – but it's rich looking swirls of black and brown wood. "I wanted to hear you play," I tell Christian huskily, stepping back as he sets me on my feet. "I haven't since –" I stop. Since the night I asked him to beat me. The one and only time I told him that I loved him. Really told him.

Now, I feel my stomach roil as the memories of the pain I suffered flares. I gag, cover it with some fake coughing, clench my hand over my throat and make myself swallow the bile down. My eyes are fixed on the piano as I demand to my body to settle down. The pain that horrifically throbbed throughout my ass is long gone and Christian has sworn he will never use a belt on me again. I hope to hell I can believe him. Christian touches my hair, soothing one of his big hands over the loosened slick chignon I wear daily to work, and I feel like a dog being petted. Soothed. _Good girl._

Christian tells them where to put the piano and one of the men says the manager requests Mr. Grey let them know when he is done with it, or the piano can stay indefinitely. They leave and Mrs. Jones steps smoothly into the silence to say that dinner is ready. I could use something to drink to get the raw acid taste out of my throat. Definitely. And when he takes my hand to pull me along to the dining room of the suite I go willingly.

And there, along with the wonderful smell, is the wonderful sight of White Castle burgers piled artistically on a silver tray. Along with French fries, onion rings, onion chips – he's gotten the entire menu once more. It makes me smile. Christian Grey cannot do anything small. I already know that there will be plenty for the security staff and Mrs. Jones, and whatever isn't put away for later and hopefully breakfast, will find its way to a shelter for tonight's snack there. I look at him, so tall and strong and miraculously trying to please ME, just plain old Ana Steele. "Thank you, Christian."

He brushes a kiss over my hair and holds the fancy dining chair for me to sit in. "I'm afraid your chocolate strawberry shake didn't make the trip back successfully." He frowns, battles back anger, then shrugs. Those beautiful grey eyes move over the table full of food, meet mine. "So I asked Mrs. Jones to make you one."

And that explained his housekeeper slash cook being here, I guess. The lady of the hour enters with – get this – a tall fancy looking crystal cut glass on a silver tray and places it over my china plate at what I am sure is just the right angle to all the silverware. I roll my eyes (mentally) and say a sincere thank you to the woman. They both watch as I take a sip, then a longer sip, then a long pull at the straw – which I am pretty sure was from White Castle. "Delicious," I praise her. Mrs. Jones smiles in satisfaction and disappears once more.

"So what shall I try first," Christian asks with that handsome and yes panty-dropping half grin.

Since he's bought everything, I pop back out of my seat and put one of everything on three plates for him. One plate for me. Then, because I am trying so hard to make this week together be just like I always hoped a week together with some special man would be, I pull my chair around so we are seated side by side at the head of the table, grab my plates and the shake, and sit down. "Now we eat." And I munch into my first slider.


	38. Chapter 38

**Christian's Point of View**

I wait for Elena to arrive at the restaurant, noting that my investment is being put to good use if the black granite surface counter and heavy titanium metal bar chairs are an indication. Outside of Japan, I know people often think of sushi as a dish consisting of some sort of raw sea creature. But the fact is that this is sashimi, which is wholly distinct from sushi. The term sushi actually refers to any dish made with a vinegared rice, called shari, and a number of other ingredients which made include fish, either cooked or raw. My first experience with sushi was in Japan during a business trip / vacation with my parents and siblings many years ago. I developed a taste at that time and some trips to a Manhattan restaurant called Masa where Chef Masa Takayama has a omakase menu since solidified my enjoyment in this cuisine. So when Chef Shiro Kashiba was looking for some investors here in Seattle for his Shiro's Sushi restaurant, I put out some cash and added a signature for a loan. And it was a good call.

After the last three nights of eating Anastasia's idea of fun food I am relieved to be faced with excellent and tasteful as well as nutritionally sound items. After spending a good twenty minutes with diarrhea and stomach cramps, four times last night, I have made a decision. Anastasia loves to cook and while there is a tiny half kitchen at the Fairmont suite it's not going to suffice to lure my gorgeous woman into it. And I can't handle much more of her dietary choices. So if that damn plan of Taylor's doesn't work, after Tuesday I am moving us into another apartment or a house if Anastasia would rather. Gail can cook, Anastasia can cook, my Mom can come over and try to cook, but I am done with what is called fast food. Fast food. What a jackass name. It's called that because it goes through your body fast. And painfully.

And here she comes. I can remember Elena from childhood. I would watch her from my place hiding behind furniture and peering around doorways when my Mom had her over, just like all the other guests. She was always dressed in tight black clothing that seemed to emphasize her silvery blonde hair that bright red lipstick and those flashing blue eyes that would narrow on me before she would raise one eyebrow and turn away. Now, I recognize the considering looks she gave me. Elena was sizing me up even as a small boy. I had done the same thing with various Submissives who I judged too young or too inexperienced. It was a way of identifying all the body details which pleased, picking each piece and grading it. Just a scorecard, a reminder to be used into the future if the occasion arose.

"Darling boy," she murmurs now which is exactly like Grace does, and reaches out her left hand for my right one.

It is with disgust that I realize how automatically I respond to her gesture. Once trained always trained, I jeer at myself. This is how she manipulated me at the Fairmont when Anastasia found us on the bed together. And it shames me to understand that just as I took her hand now, I did then, letting her control me. I drop her fingers and turn so we will eat at the bar.

Chef Shiro greats me swiftly, respectfully. Some part of me recognizes that after two years of business partnership, we have no personal connection and that Anastasia would have already offered a friendly and most likely delighted smile, offered a hand, and be chatting or more likely listening. Elena, who has had so much to do with how I developed into the taciturn, gruff and typically straight up nasty bastard I am, gives him a glare and snarls, "Make it good. I've heard this place is questionable."

I shake my head slightly, watching her in the mirror behind the preparation area. I chose the sushi bar because I didn't want to face her across a table. It's an obvious disappointment to the several waiters that I chose this spot. One man skims by and places a basket of delicately prepared toast triangles by my left arm, the other to Elena's right then disappears again. Shiro has obviously been told my preferences on drinks for lunch, as well as Elena – Taylor and Andrea are both excellent at having such details well ironed in advance – and he settles a row of iced water, orange juice, apple juice, green iced tea, then a carafe of strong black coffee and another of hot chai tea where we both can reach. Elena throws things off by demanding a scotch and water with olive and green pepper garnish and Shiro directs one of the other men to make her drink.

I'm a big man and I have a large appetite. Especially since I cleaned my colon out with those White Castle sliders. Anastasia gleefully ate cold ones for breakfast which put me off eating anything. She was so adorable teasing me with onion chips that I slammed her up against the wall and made her forget all about my gastric upset last night; I'm pretty sure she forgot her own name for a while as I focus her on two orgasms in ten minutes. My woman was still a little wild eyed and definitely flushed while she rushed to make it out of the hotel and to her job on time. _Yes, baby, I am teaching you to have orgasms on command. You just don't know it yet. And since you'll never be with any other man there's no point in creating a command word for just me – I will be your only Dom, your only man. Christian Grey is your one and only, Anastasia._

So now I am starved. Shiro goes about preparing numerous delicacies since he knows tiny portions won't make me happy. I shovel in Ama-ebi = sweet raw shrimp, Anago = salt water eel, pressed mackerel sushi, Beni-shoga = red pickled ginger, cucumber roll, Gobo = burdock root, Gunkan-maki, oysters, Kampyo = dried gourd in a sweet sauce, live Mirugai = geoduck, Inari = Natto and scallions in a bean curd wrap, quail egg and tobiko in a Gunkan-maki, Saba = mackerel, Nigiri sushi, Spider roll, Tako = octopus, Tobiko = flying fish roe, Iwashi = sardine tsukudani, and Uni = sea urchin.

I could eat double all of it. Elena takes a nibble of each dish presented. I have food issues, John tells me they will most likely never go away although I can develop better control, but they have never touched Elena. I don't give a shit if she eats or not. I consider this fact as I eat. I think about a lot of things as I fill my stomach. Things that John Flynn has presented to me, other psychiatrists and psychologists have laid out for me to try and understand.

Grace and Carrick Grey adopted me. They wanted me. They chose me. And more importantly they _kept_ me, despite how dysfunctional I was and progressively became. There were private and military schools far away, places where they could have placed me so they were free to have a perfect family with Elliot and Mia. I drink my coffee, ignoring Elena's hand on my thigh, stroking.

They loved me. All of me. Just as I love Anastasia. All of her. The sweetness, the laughter, her tears and nearly suicidal clumsiness, and the bossy and controlling streak that is neither sexy nor appealing to me … but which I reluctantly bow to because I want her to be happy.

Just as she loves me.

The knowledge, the knowing, blows through me. She loves me. Anastasia still loves me. She hasn't told me again, I haven't earned those words once more from my beautiful girl, but her every action says it louder than the words. She has forgiven if not forgotten my destructive actions, has allowed me into her life more fully every step along our path together. There is no other benefit to her. For her. She has no use or desire for my wealth, power, or the privileged lifestyle I can deliver. And she definitely is not with me for my skills in the BDSM arena or as a Dominant; not for a paycheck, not for kicks, not because she wants the torture.

Now I put these examples side by side. My parents, my siblings, even my grandparents, my Anastasia. It's a bond. Invisible, unbreakable. And each of us can choose to strengthen it or loosen the ties, but the bond will always remain.

And then there is Elena. If there had been a modicum of love from her, I would have returned it. I had been ensnared, impressionable and vulnerable, easy pickings for a pedophile. I had wanted someone else to love me, want me. That and sexuality which found an outlet that I don't care what Flynn says, most teenage boys would give their eyeteeth for. But I had walked away from her so easily. I left for college and she called me back only through her offer to train me as a Dominant. That had appealed to me, not Elena. Elena's appeal had by then lapsed. Withered. By the time I decided college wasn't for me, I easily used her money and connections with no real thought or feeling. At age twenty-one I had begun to make the transformation into Christian Grey, Master of the Universe.

Elena had provided me with what I called friendship. She obtained and trained and disposed of my Submissives, arranged private orgies and identified the clubs where I could safely play out my every fantasy and whim. She checked in with me every Monday that her employees had performed to my standards and we had lunch most Thursdays to discuss what my plans were with my Sub or at some club for the coming weekend. I funded her salon chain, her charities, her whims, her wants and needs with minimal thought and less concern.

I had let her enclose me, isolate me, the awareness of "normalcy" in regards to friendships satisfied by her presence in my life. I took on the role she directed for me in the same unconscious and automatic behavior as I had just taken her hand twenty minutes before. And then she told me how to humiliate and punish Anastasia. And I did it.

"Christian, focus. You haven't heard a single word I've said," Elena snaps now, pushing the last dish away and demanding a third drink.

"You're wrong, Elena. I've taken it all in." I glance at Taylor and he immediately brings me my briefcase. "I just chose not to respond." I snap open the thin black case and take out the cashier's check for forty million dollars held in a equally thin black case, like a restaurant board. "You don't need to sign any papers since I have your Power of Attorney. Once you place this check for deposit our business is officially severed. I'll end all legal connections within five business days from that point."

Her eyes, those blue eyes that are cold and gleam with pleasure so brilliantly when she inflicts pain, are dim. Elena may have Subbed for me, but she never enjoyed it. Her thing is power, not power exchange, not sharing. Control. And now she seeks to take it back. "Darling, I cannot agree to this." She shoves the case back toward me, not even opening it. "I treasure our friendship, more than our business partnership, more than any of our business together," she adds discretely smirking. "You need me for all three of those things." Her hand drops once more to my thigh, brushes along the inside.

Anastasia can look at me with those ocean blue eyes so full of life in ways I have still to discover, and I am aroused a thousand ways. Elena boldly cups her hand over my cock, fingers my balls, and there is nothing. I remove her hand. "No more. We're through." Standing, I nod my thanks to Chef Shiro. He waves away my move to pull out my wallet from inside my suit coat, but I nod slightly toward the waiters who have done nothing more than stay out of the way and make Elena's drinks, and put a handful of bills down on the black surface.

As I turn to leave my eyes catch Elena's face and hold. She is simply stunned. Silent. Her face, most likely botoxed yesterday for our appointment today, can barely show her emotions. But as with all women, she must have the last word.

"When you're done with your untrained Sub, I'll still be here for you, Christian."

Rather than fight her for the supremacy of power, I walk away.


	39. Chapter 39

**Elena's Point of View**

I order Bradley to take the cashier's check to the closest bank, jump through the hoops necessary for the money to end up in my offshore account via a bank in Zurich. Christian's money makes me happy. Forty million dollars tax free, invisible, all mine.

Now all I have to do is reel him back in to me. This Anastasia Steele is a pain in my ass. An untrained Submissive. I never would have thought such a thing of Christian. Completely untrained, a frigging virgin, he told me. Of course, I can use that piece of knowledge. Little Miss Steele will be devastated to find out how much I know about her – and of course I will tell her all the information came from her Master. That will sting her. That will be something I can use to assert control over her.

I have my plan already in place. Next Friday there is going to be a little accident in Germany, one of Christian's little acquisitions which he plans to tear apart and sell in pieces. I do keep tabs on his businesses, so easy to do when he will tell me every last boring detail during our Thursday lunches. But I have arranged through contacts for a strike with a few explosions and accompanying violence – he'll have to go and deal with it. At the same time Jason Taylor, Christian's Chief of Security, has already arranged for the little bitch's security staff to have a weekend off – using my now ex-security guards to cover her detail. Taylor of course is thinking that Christian will be in town and with the brown haired cunt, so there would be little to worry about. But I own them, all four of those security hunks of meat, and even if I have to cut their salaries in half from what Christian was paying them each one will remain faithful to me!

And that means with Christian in Germany, Taylor and whoever else he heavily relies on and trusts also in Germany to guard Christian against attack, my ability to introduce Anastasia to the real Christian Grey and her first experiences with submission will be uninterrupted. She will be easy to break and then rebuild. I imagine a few hours, twelve at the outside, likely four to six before she is moldable. But wouldn't it be nice if it took longer? I have days, weeks, maybe months' worth of video showing Christian in all his glory. Most of it is giving, but there are a few hours of him receiving enchanting discipline by myself from the early days. Perfect close-ups of that fine-looking face as he experienced my Strict Leather Tigress Whip for the second time. Oohhhh.

I have never found it difficult to become the Mistress of another woman, a Submissive. It is a skill. A calling, perhaps. Women are emotionally fragile, flexible of course, but easily manipulated. Once Anastasia is shown how Christian has done exactly the same things with other Subs – and I have had a whole series of pictures carefully created showing the others in his bedroom, in his bed and bathroom, her feelings of being special will be superseded by anger, shame, worthlessness and foolishness. Just the openings I need. I will guide her to still want him – all women do in one way or another – and hunger for his attention. Instead of his affection through gentle kisses, loving touches, words spoken with need (that surveillance vid from the meeting room when Christian gave her those fucking Wal-Mart earrings was a fluke but so worth the money in bribes to get), I will teach Submissive Anastasia to hunger for affection expressed with the crack of a belt, the sting of a cat-o-nine tail, and the bruising force of his mighty cock punishing her cunt to bloody bruising. She will learn every trick to pleasing him and how to perform each one flawlessly. It could be this is why Christian has become so fond of her – he is teaching her how to perform tricks like one does a puppy. And when you teach a puppy a trick, you grow fond of it during the process.

Regardless, I know exactly the first video I will show Christian's little Anastasia. It is simply perfect. The girl, Yesinia, is young for his tastes; he's always preferred more mature women and she looks barely legal – and the truth is that she was only fifteen. And she looks so very, very much like Anastasia. Right down to the big dark blue eyes and clear complexion. She'll feel like she is looking at a movie of herself. Christian is enjoying himself greatly in the scene and Yesinia who is a true masochist protests so greatly, her large eyes tear-filled, tears dribbling down her face, all the screams, sobbing and pleading behind her ball gag, that even the man behind the camera was coming in his pants. I sigh as the images cross my mental screen.

Christian is in a private dungeon I have used for training both Dominants and Submissives. It offers so much and in such great privacy that the cost is well worth it. Yesinia suffers through the initial bouts: cuffs, rope and ties that keep her hands and feet out of the way; spreader bar at her knees for immobilization; punishment collar studded with real diamonds that Christian says in the film that he purchased especially for his "little sweet Yesinia"; high quality blindfold, although he takes it off half way through so we can all enjoy the way the little Submissive rolls her deep blue eyes and begs the camera for someone to help her escape the cruelty inflicted upon her; the various medieval torture devices – some Christian even brags he bought at a Christy's auction in London; there's a lovely part where he restricts her air erotically – Yesinia shared with me afterward that she has never had a better orgasm and doubts there will ever be its equal; suspension … Until finally Christian moves on to the real play – electrical stimulation with the Zeus Twilight Violent Wand and Electrosex Torpedo Plugs, beatings with all sorts of crops, canes, and whips … and as Yesinia lays a trembling nearly broken mess, he begins real blood play. All the while, in that deep sensual voice that is dripping with sardonic upper crust intonations, for hour after hour, Christian is praising her, telling Yesinia how beautiful she is, how lovely, that he wants to keep her with him forever, and that she pleases him like no other.

AAHHHH! I am panting, my body trembling from the orgasm those memories gave me. It takes time to come down from this kind of stimulation.

The important thing is to have Anastasia Steele sign the contract for me as her Mistress and Trainer. Then I can place her under my care, possibly in another city where I have – well, where I had - a salon so Christian can't find her. Because he possibly would want her back immediately rather than the year I will make him wait. He'll want her that much more in twelve months and I may very well ask him for several million to sign with her. And if he doesn't want her then … well, she is going to be a prize in my stable. The little bitch took to Christian and his punishments and humiliation, his contract and outrageous manners when she was virgin and a country bumpkin. I have no doubt she'll work out just fine with any number of my clients once she knows all the ins and outs of proper Submissive behavior. It's …

Delicious.


	40. Chapter 40

**Author's Note: a tremendous thank you to Lori66 for being my editor. also a shout out to TF77 = I hope Miz James has readers as enthusiastic and responsive as you!**

**Taylor's Point of View**

Excellent. I am officially done with Miz Elena Lincoln. Fucking stupid stuck-up shitty senior-citizen bitch. Since day one that I worked for the boss I have despised her. It took me a hell of a lot longer than Miss Steele to figure out what Lincoln was to Grey – pedophile abuser who like any leech had her suckers on him and wasn't letting go.

Lunch was hilarious. Gail giggled herself silly with the security replay I showed her – and I record everything that involves the boss. The Troll Bitch was doing her best to flirt, all smiles and hair flips and batting her eyes. Considering her face was almost immobilized with Botox it was a feat to behold. When that whole performance didn't get even a glance from Grey, who was eating in his usual singular concentrated manner, she flipped over to trying to convince him to let her keep the salon chain. Now she's known him since he was fifteen – why would she even try? I have never seen him change his mind on a business deal (with the exception of Miss Steele as his submissive, but that wasn't really business, was it) and she's listened to him week after week going on about his empire. So she should have known. But she prattles on how he should admire her little tricks and turns with Esclava, the benefits he's garnered, and how she is sorry she got caught juggling things a little off center but she can make it all right. He wasn't impressed, kept eating, eyes flitting between the chef and the mirror back splash, and every once in a while to his Blackberry – probably one of the naked pictures he's taken of Miss Steele.

Grey finally finishes eating and when he signals I bring him his briefcase with the cashier's check for forty million. I don't know and don't give a shit about the business end of the boss' life. But I asked Welch and he says the buyout is about right, although the boss is losing like thirty million due to taxes and whatnot. Honestly, Grey can afford it. And if I had been there when Ana, I mean Miss Steele, got an eyeful of the boss and the bitch at the Fairmont, I would have shot her for setting the whole thing up. Guess timing is everything. The troll is walking free and clear.

I head to my office at Escala so I can officially wipe out all her bennies from Grey … and share my amusement with Gail. Lincoln had four security guys: Sheridan, Warner, Eagle, Farmer. Farmer was the senior man and handled it all – all I ever did was get his weekly report and approve payroll, overtime, raises. He handled the rest. I give Miss Steele's people a long weekend off and put Farmer and his people on her for that time. Grey will be with her so I don't have to worry about personality conflicts, relationship boundaries, or how Legs tends to baby security like they are lapdogs or some shit. Farmer and his people just need to do the job as per standard operating procedures.

Then the skids get yanked out from under Grey. It starts with Miss Steele wanting to go out with her friends: bowling and drinks. Except the place she chose is way beyond securing – it's a fucking casino and not an exclusive Monaco one like the boss typically visits on business. There is no way an hour or two's notice is going to make it ok. I tell the boss and he calls her to nix the idea.

I should have seen it coming. He's got no sense, no idea how to talk to another person like they are an actual human being. He's telling her no way and in his usual yelling and cursing manner. And then he's suddenly staring at his cell. Just staring. I see his face go absolutely white. I get a chill, big time, thinking his heart just exploded or he's got a massive bleed in his brain – but then he gets in a gulp of air and a little color comes back in. "Sir?" I try to focus him.

His eyes are slate – dark and angry. "We need to go to Flynn's," he tells me, getting up from his desk, automatically buttoning his suit jacket and sweeping a hand over his tie to be sure it is straight. Then he stands there, behind that huge ass desk, hands clenching and releasing. I wait, not moving, not responding to my phone. His assistant Andrea opens the door, looks, and backs right out – smart lady. After a time, Grey comes back to himself. His voice is quiet, almost without any kind of inflection. "Call him. Otherwise I'll beat her."

_Not this time you won't, _I think as we walk to the executive elevator.

#

**Ana's Point of View**

Well, I guess I need to make a decision tonight. Right now, while Mia's theater players are on stage making their bows.

I watched Christian and Bitch Troll's lunch on Thursday and I still don't think I know what to think. What does it say about me that now the Super Friends, these nice people who I just met since graduation and finding this job, know I agreed to contract as a BDSM Submissive? I honestly believe that the normal contracts in that lifestyle are half and half regarding payment of some form. So I am either a whore for sale or just choosing an alternative lifestyle with a written contract. I can only thank the dear God that I broke the NDA and told them just a little last weekend at the beach. Maybe God is smiling on me a little, because Morgan, Sharlie and Alison all send little notes in manuscripts giving their opinions of Elena ( 100% we are taking her down ) and expressing amazement that anyone could have that much money just to hand over – between us we will never in our lifetimes make forty million dollars.

Interestingly, they – my friends - are all ignoring the rest. Is that good or bad?

We all go out for our Thursday after work get together. This time it is Roxbury Lanes Bowling and Casino. But I woofed up and didn't tell Sawyer until it hit me close to 4 o'clock. Christian called me by 4:15 and told me I couldn't go because security hadn't had enough time to scope it out. I am left speechless and his voice saying my name only brings on a feeling of … fury? He calls my name as the office phone dangles in my hand until I simply hang up the receiver.

It's childish; I see that now, a day later. But I have spent the last four years of my life doing whatever I like. Christian and his contracts and craziness, Taylor and Sawyer and Cottie and all the security – well, it just seemed like a game. A game where I did (and still could) get physically hurt, emotionally pummeled, like I am a kid playing dress up at some bizarre adult party. I haven't clearly understood the rules and should have left the game board and found a nice safe game of checkers or something. But any way I look at it, this whole thing titled Christian Grey hasn't seemed real. Just a game. And I've been very patient about it. I played along, mostly. Now I'm not.

At 4:30 I go peaceably with Sawyer and company to the empty parking garage and run laps, zig sagging, ducking, hitting, throwing, maneuvering, whatever they want. And promptly at 5:30 (thanks to my text) Ethan pulls up outside and I grab my purse and bag with a change of clothing and inform Sawyer that I am going out for the night and don't want any of "Mr. Grey's security." Then I get into Ethan's brilliant blue sports car, he tells me it's a loaner from his Dad, a Vanquish Volante. Apparently something happened to his other car? I can only laugh as he avoids any answer. Kate's parents have always confused me – they supply her with whatever she wants but seem so proud of her trying to "make it on her own" as her mother has told me several times during visits during our college years. If Ray had millions of dollars, would he be the same with me? I guess. It's hard to fathom.

I ignore my cell phone ringing and beeping that I have texts. Back at my and Kate's apartment, which is looking a bit unused and unloved, I shower from my security workout, then dress in casual skinny mini moto skimmer khakis in antique pewter and a chiffon overlay cami I pair with a light gauzy shirt from Kate's closet, slip-on flats. I braid my hair, hating that it reminds me of how Christian requires his Submissives to do so, swipe on a simple layer of makeup and I'm ready.

We go to the bowling alley which is wonderful looking. They have all kinds of lanes, a restaurant, grill, bar, lounge, as well as the casino. By seven the place is filling up with SIP, I mean Grey Publishing employees and whoever the usual Thursday evening bowlers and gamblers, eaters and drinkers are.

Now no one is stupid and suggests I bowl. Even the lanes are automated so a score keeper isn't necessary, but I take up the one position where I'm not likely to cause injury to myself and others. I'm still in shock at what I've done and it takes a few wine coolers for me to process things. On one hand I have just asserted my independence. Every twenty-one year old woman has the right to do this, and in fact should go out with friends after work and just enjoy being young and free. On the other hand, most women like me aren't somehow or other entangled with Christian Grey.

Christian Grey who told me no and I have not only ignored his directive, but I have in this act broken what is the Dominant / Submissive relationship to smithereens. There was no communication, no discussion or argument. I put my mind to use and made a decision that didn't involve Christian, other than once he told me no I decided that his opinion didn't matter. His opinion … and his need to control me. Protect me in the paranoid and over the top manner he sees as the only way. His way.

Have I freed myself? Cursed myself? How did I go from enjoying a luxury hotel suite and gently teasing him about eating junk food to walking away from it all so I can drink a wine cooler and cheer Alison on to another strike? Strike. And then it hits me.

I chickened out. I, Ana Steele, the bookworm, had this chance at falling in love with a complex and injured man who is a sex god that makes me scream with orgasms I suspect other women never achieve. He's made changes, walked outside of his comfort zones, is trying new things and new ways. To please me. And I just walked away. He didn't do anything wrong, not this time, not yet. I just got mad and decided my way was the right way and I wanted my way. Like a spoiled child.

I sigh. I put my wine cooler down. Then I tell my friends I'll be back and go to a quiet part of the lounge and find the number on my phone. Press the call button.

He answers quietly, putting his caller ID to good use. "Hello, Anastasia." He is reserved, cold, no more emotional than Alison answering her multiple lines at the end of the day at Grey Publishing.

I do what an adult should do. "I was wrong and I'm sorry. Can I come back to the hotel – are you still at the hotel?" It hadn't occurred to me until this moment he could be anywhere.

He's silent and I wait. Honestly I'm thrilled he's not screaming and shouting. I look around the lounge, and Cottie moves a little so I identify her against the wall perhaps twenty yards away from me. Her eyes skim past me and I dutifully look to my right and see Sawyer. He looks pissy. Great. "Christian …" I trail off. I can think of a hundred things on the negative side of the scale: he's with another woman, he's with a Sub or someone who understands clearly how to play those games, he's done with me. And I can think of just a few positives. "I –"" I stop, bite my lip. Do or die. Saying the words doesn't mean I've agreed to be less than who I am and who I can someday be. "I think I'm still in love with you, Christian." The words sink down to a whisper as I get to his name. My throat is tight and I don't know if I want to cry or what. I was rejected the last time I offered these words to this man, but I seem to come crawling back no matter what he does. He keeps saying that he loves me, but I can't believe him, can I? Do I? Should I? So. So. So. One last chance.

In my mind there are three women. They all look like me with pale skin that never keeps tan, blue eyes that are a bit too big for my face and sometimes I feel like they make me look like an alien, long brown hair that is my best feature. The first one takes all the serious issues, life and death. The second is sensible and takes care of the daily stuff. And my third is part child part sex goddess part … well, the part that wants what she wants and if the other two will let her, she's my wild inner being. Now all three wait with me for a response.

The silence drags out. I look up at the ceiling, then over to Cottie, then Sawyer. On my look around the lounge my eyes stop at the glass doors as Jason Taylor, big as a tank, walks in. And behind him is Christian, a few inches shorter, less bulky, handsome as sin and one of a kind beautiful. He has his phone in his hand and held up to his ear. He looks around and his gaze tracks to me as I stand there leaning against the carpeted wall (who carpets walls?) with my phone to my ear.

I can't say that our eyes meet, although they do. It's a good distance and there's smoke from cigarettes and people passing between us. But I feel his gray eyes burning into mine and they don't leave me as he somehow manages to cross the room without anyone bumping into him. I close my phone and slip it into my front pocket, anxiously cross my fingers before thrusting them into my back pockets. My Conscience raises my chin so I show confidence. My Inner Goddess gets in a deep breath so my breasts jut out more. And My Sub-Conscience establishes a Wait and See stance.

Christian strides to me then stands there a few inches of space between us. He puts his phone in his jacket pocket and I vaguely realize that, as usual, he is still dressed in a beautiful black suit. I picked out his tie this morning, a dark red with a few geometric patterns of black, and he wore it. How little it takes to please me, and it meant a lot that he wore it. A small shield against the BT. My eyes travel up his body, and I so know what is hidden under those clothes, over his gorgeous carved features and my eyes hold his once more. _Just get the words out_, my Conscience advises gently. _Say them again, Ana._

"I –" I stutter, flubbing it. But he's let me be in the lead these past few days. And I don't think hesitating is going to make things any better or worse. Change things, yes. "I love you." My Inner Goddess takes full credit for the words coming out of my mouth.

His lips twist. At the same time his hands, large square palms and long fingers, grasp my waist and he pulls me into the heat of his body. My chin tilts up so our eyes still meet as he holds me fast to him. I swallow as he starts talking. "Anastasia, I have spent the past three hours listening to Dr. Flynn and Taylor try to convince me that chaining you to a table and whipping your ass black and blue is not the way to either show you that I love you, or make you stay with me. And I've had to remind myself during that time that I actually even want you."

Well, there's some honesty for me. I blink a few times; close my mouth which is hanging open. My hands are still in my back pockets and Christian now fists those large hands around my elbows, pulling them together at my spine. I've seen BDSM on the internet where a woman is restrained this way, over her elbows with shoulders back. Restrained. That's how I feel. But I'm also, for all the fear coating my skin in a light sweaty sheen, feeling a sneaky bit of confidence. He came for me. Christian spoke to his psychiatrist and his COS (Chief of Security) about his emotions and controlling his behaviors, then he came here to find me. Before I called him with my half-ass declaration.

"But I do want you. So we'll work this out. Without the beating." He huffed that out, obviously unhappy and reminding me of a little boy who has been told he can't destroy his toys. "And even though I'm angry" he gritted that word out "as hell, I still love you. And I appreciate hearing those words from you." His eyes were glinting with anger, emotions running high. "But my world was so much easier before you, Anastasia Steele."

I swallow again. Taylor is almost on top of Christian, I guess making sure he doesn't give in to that beating idea. Maybe next time I get a wild hair I'll think it through a little more. "My world was simple before you, Christian Grey." And one whole hell of a lot less painful. I tug and he lets go of my arms. Carefully, so careful not to trigger his fear of touch, I ease my fingers up his tie, around the collar of his white shirt, then into the soft red of his hair. I am so in love with his hair. Maybe if I shaved him bald these feelings raging though me would end. If only. "Please don't hurt me this time," I whisper in his ear as Christian bends down to me, those strong arms crossing my back. "I want to say 'I love you' without being hurt."

He was in control last night – when isn't he. A little rougher than I've grown use to in these past five days, but not mean. And I submitted willingly. It was more than Christian needing me to be passive, it was submission to his demands. But he wasn't Dominant Christian and his demands were positions, holding off my orgasms, and he wanted me to hold my breath once while he watched me approach a climax that nearly made me black out. I guess "breath play" doesn't have to mean strangling and plastic bags over the head – thank God, because I may be willing to experiment here, but I am **NOT** doing that. Even my Inner Goddess refuses. But we all agreed that a light spanking was so erotic and such a turn on that I'm getting wet right now remembering the stinging slaps from that hot hand of his.

And we said "I love you" to each other repeatedly.

So I got to work Friday morning with zero sleep, a body that has been thrashed and even now pulsates with delicious aches that pills and creams aren't going to cure, and a decision to make. Somewhere toward morning Christian demanded that I sign a new contract.

"I can't do this. I can't function without knowing you're mine, Anastasia," he announced as I lay face down over the back of a loveseat. I'd probably just woken everyone in the hotel with my screaming and from the feel of things Christian was simply waiting on an indication I was recovered enough for him to continue fucking me to Stupid Ville. Apparently it was a long drive. "You have to sign an agreement that you belong to me. Only me. You have to." And that was a demand.

So, as I lay there with my face on the flowered cushion, my ass in the air, a wet mess of tangled hair on both ends, what did I say? "Show it to me tonight and I'll look it over, Christian."

And I got fucked again.

Back to where I started. I need to make a decision tonight. Now. Mia's co-actors are on stage making their bows. The production was fine, I'm not a difficult audience. But everyone is standing and clapping. The leads, all the actors, are getting armfuls of flowers, and I saw Christian ordering flowers at the start of the first act, so some of them are from him.

The Greys are out in full force. Carrick and Grace are glowing with pride, dressed as if they are at a fancy opera or maybe attending a White House function. Carrick in a tuxedo of black and white, Grace even has a little tiara placed in her upswept blonde hair – I wonder if she had the coloring done at Esclava? Grace's parents are in attendance. I don't know anything about Carrick's parents, but they aren't here. Something to ask Christian about at a later date.

Elliot is here, with Kate. She's got a rock on her finger that looks to weigh a pound. I've hefted lunch meat packages with less weight. It's a diamond with huge striking blue sapphires surrounding it. At my raised eyebrows she shakes her head "no" that it's not an engagement ring. Jesus Jumping Junipers! If that's a dinner ring, what the hell will Elliot get her for an engagement ring? And I have no doubt that is exactly where the relationship is going. They both look happy and in love. It's a beautiful thing.

I think Grace's household and yard staff is all present. I hear a lot of "Mr. Carrick" and "Miss Grace" as well as Elliot, Christian and Mia's names given a preceding designation. All it does is remind me that I have got to make all these people Christian has around him either call me Ana or Miss Steele, but none of this Miss Ana stuff. I'll only go so far.

Then there's Christian's staff – most of them are here, although I only know a few key people like Mrs. Jones, Andrea, Ros, Barney with Sharlie …we filled up the theater for Mia. She may have had a small part, but she's got the most people clapping!

Christian gave me the new contract as we rode in the back of a long white limousine to the 5th Avenue Theater. We are all having a late supper at Daniel's Broiler in Lake Union, he has informed me. While he's talking with Taylor before we leave the Fairmont I look it up on my returned Blackberry – one of my concessions last night for pissing him off so bad. There's a flag on the website stating the entire place is reserved for a private party tonight. I am guessing that Christian or perhaps Carrick and Grace reserved the entire restaurant. Considering that I would never have even eaten at such an expensive place before Christian came into my life, it simply shows how proud they are of Mia that such a venue has been chosen. That's my opinion.

Anyway, the contract. After making sure I am seat belted into the limousine, I look up and Christian opens a briefcase and hands me a silvery hard bound contract holder. The freaking thing has its own little light that flits on as soon as I open it. Wow.

It's very basic. No big words, no confusing clauses, no sections and numbers and letters to make it easier to identify what I wish to discuss or negotiate.

_I, Anastasia Rose Steele, agree to belong to Christian Trevelyan Grey._

I lift the page, even turn it over, looking for more. Nope. This is it. One sheet. Eleven words not counting today's date and the place for both of us to sign beneath the single sentence. For Lord's sake, there's the Seal for the Notary.

There are no time limits, no words on how to end the contract. Is this a contract? I can honestly say that I am uncomfortable with the simplicity. I frankly think simple and Christian are not something that fit together. What does "belong to" mean exactly? Where are the hard and soft limits? Where are the rules and regulations? Hell, taking the job at SIP involved more paperwork than this and I wasn't expected to let anyone tie me up or perform fellatio.

It shook me up so much I was the first one out of the limo when we pulled up to the theater. Taylor about had heart failure and Luke sent me a look that said I am in for more training on security procedures. But Christian took my hand, cool calm collected, not commenting on my complete silence and having left the contract where I tossed it before exiting the vehicle like a swarm of bees were in pursuit. What was worse, he smiled for the paparazzi, kissed me on the mouth – lightly – in front of them, and actually chose which woman I was going to respond to. That was the one who asked, "Mr. Grey, Miss Steele, what's your favorite television show?"

I blanch. Hell, I haven't watched TV in a week. Before that, I spent the time after we made up from the pee humiliation incident on the couch at my apartment, watching TV, talking, making out. Christian's interest was in anything business and I swear I had never done more than skip those channels over when surfing – but we watched channels which had lots of numbers and letters scrolling on the bottom, top, and both sides of the screen. And lots of men and women being nasty to each other, being incomprehensible about businesses and stocks. But with Christian waiting patiently, and I am terribly aware of his thumb stroking my inner wrist where my pulse is galloping, I manage a smile and respond with what my Sub-Conscience holds up on a cardboard cue card, "We enjoy Your Business with JJ Ramberg." From the way Christian scoops me into the theater I suspect that might have been a show he wasn't paying attention to as we necked.

But really, that was the least of my problems tonight. The curtain calls are over and we're gathered to congratulate the actors and director and whoever else. No matter what, I have very little time before I'm back in that limo and I have to sign or not.

Don't I?

#

**Christian's Point of View**

This is how I see it. Anastasia is pushing at her boundaries. We haven't established what her limits are and are not. She's floundering. A submissive, or in this case my future wife, needs to know where the fence is which surrounds her, the one I have erected to keep her safe. And that means a contract.

John and Taylor have counseled me against presenting yet another contract to Anastasia, but this time I am certain of what is right. The contract I am giving her tonight is simple, straight forward, complete. It will show Anastasia the limits, give her room to commit regrettable errors such as yesterday without the fear of reprisal by her Dom - Master – I mean Husband. With her signature I can relax from this overwhelming stress which eats at me until I think an ulcer is the least of my worries – I am having heart palpitations. Anastasia's outright defiance yesterday nearly caused me a heart attack.

Once she signs I can rest easy. Mistakes which she makes, such as yesterday, can be dealt with kindly. I'll have no need to immediately jump to violent thoughts because Anastasia will be attached to me. Any errors in judgment are correctable without any persistent and underlying worry that she will leave me. As my property, my sole property, there will be relief, even amusement in her acting out. I can sit back and hold the tether confidently.

We prepare for our evening after I make gentle love to her, pure vanilla. But watching her towel-wrapped and sitting on a replaced vanity bench patting some shit on her face is tempting me above and beyond my restraint, so I excuse myself to get some work done in the room I've made into a temporary office in our suite.

I never gave one single solitary fuck about women's clothing. Why would I, I'm a man. My Mom and Mia use Neiman's and I know women like pretty things. So, to keep my mother, sister, Elena and submissives happy, I had a budget set up for each of them. My Mom and Mia each get a quarter million into their accounts there every Spring, Summer, Fall, and Winter season. Elena got one hundred thousand a quarter. And my Subs got fifty thousand total: I was beating and fucking them, I could give less than a shitty dollar what they wore outside the Playroom.

The day Anastasia signed the NDA I called Caroline Acton at Neiman's myself – a first - and told her that I wanted everything for Anastasia, top line, no limit. At that time I had fantasies of making her do a private catwalk for me around the living areas of Escala. That hasn't changed, but the end result has in my own mind. Now I want to fuck her hard, and it would be just fine to have her restrained, but the bed I picture that furious fucking is in my bedroom at Escala, not the defunct Playroom.

Tonight my beautiful Anastasia is wearing Ralph Lauren, something called a Sheldon Printed Leather-Trim Dress. The tag says "Leather loses its blunt edge on this Ralph Lauren dress, wrapping a feminine open-back cut with thin, elegant bands. Printed mulberry silk with strips of leather trim. Plunging neckline; sleeveless. Open crisscross back. Wrapped waist. Pleated skirt. Made in Italy." It was in the evening wear section of Anastasia's closet at Escala and I picked it out for tonight. This is the first time we are going on what could be termed a date … since the art museum. I had been planning a club, dancing, then a late dinner in an attempt to lure Anastasia back to my side in a formal public setting, but Mia's play offers a better opportunity. My family, Kate and her friend Sharlie present, the crowd and noise of people so my sweet girl doesn't have the time to flash back to that incident. Flynn was very specific – get Anastasia through the first time and she'll be able to take another step in forgiving what I did.

Which goes to show the Brit bastard has some use.

I come out of the office and see Anastasia looking out the verandah windows. She wants to stand on the balcony, I know that she craves fresh air, but Taylor has explained that not only can paps take pictures of her there, she is a prime target for long or even short distance gunfire. Obediently, she stands in her finery and looks out at the world.

"You are beautiful. A goddess." The words are coming easier now. I worship her and she has changed everything. My heart pumps blood, rich and bright, the essence of the flow is her, Anastasia. I hold her to me and push aside the waterfall of mahogany curls, taste the smooth surface of her neck, shoulder. I practiced today working the small clasp, reminding myself that if I can pull beauty from ivory piano keys that I can fasten a necklace. Successful, I run my fingertips around her delicate neck then follow the Diamond & Ruby, 18K White & Rose Gold Necklace by Mouawad Jewelry down her chest and trace each Ruby droplet as they yearn toward her plump tits. I had it flown in from their exclusive LA store today after Mom called to tell me that Dad found some of her favorite pieces there.

The limo ride to the 5th Avenue Theater takes less than ten minutes. Once Anastasia is settled into her seat I give her the new contract. The engagement ring I selected what feels like a year ago is burning a hole in the pocket of my pants. As soon as she signs I can seal the deal. But fucking Taylor reaches the place at the speed of light and Anastasia hasn't had time to sign. She obviously sees Kate and what's her name … Sharlie, going through the front doors and jumps out of the door. Fuck!

All right, either she can sign on the drive to the restaurant or on the way back to the Fairmont. In the meantime I am going to begin my new pap policy. I spoke with the head of PR, then Welch and Taylor, added in Sawyer as Anastasia's primary COS (Chief of Security), to warn them of this. They need to control the fucking nosey scum and Taylor suggests we put a few people in undercover at the gossip rags and entertainment channel shows. Welch says he doesn't know why we didn't think of this years ago, and I can think of an answer to that but let it go. My new policy is that if my girlfriend wants to say a few words to a pap that is being polite and respectful, then that will be just fine by me. I can support her need to be social and Anastasia can't help but be sweet.

Still, I am getting anxious. She's so silent. At least to me. My parents, Elliot and Kate, her friends and my staff, Anastasia is her usual warm and sweet self. Yet the most I've gotten out of her in the last three hours is an "Mmhmm" when I asked her if she liked the play. It could be a dozen things: exhaustion because I didn't let her sleep last night after her little show of defiance about fucking bowling with her coworkers, hunger – probably for greasy junk food, pre-menstrual cramps, something to do with her after work security training upsetting her, something with her work that I haven't gotten her to share – hell I didn't even ask her how her job was today because as soon as she came through the hotel doors this afternoon I had to have her, or maybe it's because I had to take a call right before the play started and found myself shouting at an asswipe project manager who cost me a half million by ordering a production halt at a soon to be extinct pipe fitting company. But as soon as Anastasia elbowed me I excused myself and finished the ass kicking conversation out in the lobby.

Dad and Elliot are pissed at me about the necklace. I easily outdid their gifts. Dad got Mom a broach – who even wears those except Mom? And Elliot got Kate a dinner ring. I'd guess I spent a hundred thousand more than both of them on Anastasia's necklace. Then it's my turn to get pissed as Elliot shows me and Dad the engagement ring he's carting around for Kate – he's waiting for the right moment, too. But it is one jackass huge thing, he brags it's 16.5 carats, and the damn thing can blind you with the brilliance or take an eye out if used as a weapon.

God damn fucking hell son-of-a-bitch mother fucker! Now I can't give my woman a ring that's only ten carats, perfect or not. Shit! Elliot knows he's won this round and prances off to Kate as the women exit the bathroom and we all wait on Mia. I hope Kavanaugh turns the smug bastard down flat. I'd ruin him if he wasn't my brother. And if I didn't know my Mom would take a skeet gun to me if I busted his business like a weed under my shoe heel.

Unaware of any problem with my plans for securing our engagement, Anastasia glides to me, only once tripping over her own two feet and smoothly recovering as Kate (obviously experienced) and Mom (always quick on her feet) catch her before she goes down. They laugh good-naturedly as I tuck her into my side and she looks around at all the people lingering here.

But this silence situation is making me worry. I stroke her cheek and then kiss the softness that is my beautiful Anastasia as we wait for Mia to come out in street clothes. Dad decided to treat the entire cast and crew to a dinner and drinks (I'll guess a lot of those) after tonight's opening night. I already arranged to split the bill with him – if I picked the whole thing up he'd be offended. In the past I wouldn't have even attended. I'd maybe have come to the theater for the last few minutes, gotten an update on Mia's part and maybe what she said and wore from an usher Taylor paid to give me the details, then congratulate her as if I'd been there the whole time. Then in ten minutes I'd bow out of the after-party using work as the reason – which it usually was unless I was in the mood to beat shit out of some little brown haired Sub. And I would have only remembered to order her flowers with Taylor's reminder, or Mom's. Instead, I thought of it myself while watching the first scene.

"My love," I whisper in Anastasia's ear. She looks up at me with those velvet blue eyes, still silent, and those plump lips curve. Then she quickly lifts up on her tiptoes to offer that soft pouty mouth. I take the offering, turning so my back is to the people around us so this sweet moment is ours alone. "My love," I repeat, my heart beating for her.

How had this happened to me? In April I was Christian Grey, one of the fucking wealthiest men in this country, ruler of everyone. There wasn't a fucker who didn't back off when he looked at me, a woman I couldn't beat and fuck or make her want it in under a half hour. I had no friends, other than Elena who I now realize only fit the role of keeping your enemy close, no one I preferred to spend time with or cared to "share" my thoughts and feelings.

Will I spend  
forever repeating what happened in my mind? How Anastasia tripped into my office, the way she swallowed me whole as I thought I controlled the universe and never knew this innocent being had stolen my soul in that singular moment. I have thought on it, as Anastasia sleeps in my arms, well-fucked, safely, this past week. If Kate Kavanaugh had done the interview, I would only have maintained my soul for a few more weeks. Until I saw Anastasia at her college graduation, handed her a diploma or shook her hand. Until I looked into those blue eyes which promised … everything.

Now, I lift my mouth from hers. Slowly. Our lips cling, hers soft and moist, mine hard and firm. They fit. Perfectly. "Say my name," I command her. In the past years I have flinched when my name is called by others. A submissive saying my name was grounds for instant punishment followed by dismissal. All my business involvement is directed to call me Mr. Grey. There are some I have allowed to do so, use my first name, if I needed them for something and they couldn't seem to stop themselves. I count those who are allowed to say my given name: Mom, Dad, Elliot, Mia, my grandparents, Ros, John Flynn, and Elena.

"Christian." The merest whisper, her breath passing into my mouth.

"Tell me you love me." Again, I command her. I'm hard, nothing new around Anastasia, and my hands press her closer to ease the need my cock is expressing.

"I love you." Another whisper.

Grateful, I kiss her cheeks. Once more she offers those lips.

"Christian!" Mia has arrived.

Regretfully, I put my lady aside and turn to my sister. I compliment her although the entire production is immature, lacking professional skill from actor to lighting. She knows this; our parents have taken us to world class and renowned performances from Russia to Australia, France, New York City. But Mia has worked hard at this and it costs me nothing but avoidance of the honest truth, which I have had little use for until now, and she glows with the praise. Anastasia compliments her sincerely and it satisfies something inside of me, new or maybe something old, but I am content in my family's satisfaction with my chosen … mate.

Now, she signs the contract which allows me complete dominion over Anastasia, I put the ring on her finger (as soon as I get one that is better than Elliot is giving Kate), and everything is settled.

Simple.


End file.
